CHAPTER I. MRS. HAMILTON.
For many years the broad, rich acres, and old fashioned,
massive building known as “The Homestead on
the Hillside,” had passed successively from father to son,
until at last it belonged by right of inheritance to Ernest
Hamilton. Neither time nor expense had been spared in
beautifying and embellishing both house and grounds, and
at the time of which we are speaking, there was not, for
miles around, so lovely a spot as was the shady old
homestead.
It stood at some distance from the road, and on the
bright green lawn in front, were many majestic forest
trees, on which had fallen the lights and shadows of more
than a century; and under whose wide-spreading branches
oft, in the olden time, the Indian warrior had paused from
the chase until the noonday heat was passed. Leading
from the street to the house, was a wide, graveled walk
bordered with box, and peeping out from the wilderness
of vines and climbing roses, were the white walls of the
huge building, which was surrounded on all sides by a
double piazza.
Many and hallowed were the associations connected
with that old homestead. On the curiously carved seats
beneath the tall shade trees, were cut the names of some,
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who there had lived, and loved, and passed away.
Through the little gate at the foot of the garden, and just
across the brooklet, whose clear waters leaped and laughed
in the glad sunshine, and then went dancing away in the
woodland below, was a quiet spot, where gracefully the
willow tree was bending, where the wild sweet brier was
blooming, and where, too, lay sleeping those who once
gathered round the hearth-stone and basked in the sunlight
which ever seemed resting upon the Homestead on
the Hillside.
But a darker day was coming; a night was approaching
when a deep gloom would overshadow the homestead
and the loved ones within its borders. The servants, ever
superstitious, now whispered mysteriously that the spirits
of the departed returned nightly to their old accustomed
places, and that dusky hands from the graves of the slumbering
dead were uplifted, as if to warn the master of the
domain of the desolation which was to come. For more
than a year the wife of Ernest Hamilton had been dying—
slowly, surely dying — and though when the skies
were brightest and the sunshine warmest she ever seemed
better, each morning's light still revealed some fresh ravage
the disease had made, until at last there was no hope,
and the anxious group which watched her knew full well
that ere long among them would be a vacant chair, and
in the family burying ground an added grave.
One evening Mrs. Hamilton seemed more than usually
restless, and requested her daughters to leave her, that
she might compose herself to sleep. Scarcely was she
alone, when with cat-like tread there glided through the
doorway the dark figure of a woman, who advanced toward
the bedside, noiselessly as a serpent would steal to
his ambush. She was apparently forty-five years of age,
and dressed in deep mourning, which seemed to increase
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the marble whiteness of her face. Her eyes, large, black,
and glittering, fastened themselves upon the invalid with
a gaze so intense that Mrs. Hamilton's hand involuntarily
sought the bell-rope, to summon some one else to her
room.
But ere the bell was rung, a strangely sweet, musical
voice fell on her ear, and arrested her movements. “Pardon
me for intruding,” said the stranger, “and suffer me
to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Carter, who not long
since removed to the village. I have heard of your illness,
and wishing to render you any assistance in my
power, I have ventured, unannounced, into your presence,
hoping that I at least am not unwelcome.
Mrs. Hamilton had heard of a widow lady, who with
an only daughter had recently removed to the village,
which lay at the foot of the long hill on which stood the
old homestead. She had heard, too, that Mrs. Carter,
though rather singular in some respects, was unusually
benevolent, spending much time in visiting the sick and
needy, and, as far as possible, ministering to their comfort.
Extending her hand, she said, “I know you by reputation,
Mrs. Carter, and feel greatly pleased that you have
thought to visit me. Pray be seated.”
This last invitation was superfluous, for with the air of
a person entirely at home, the lady had seated herself,
and as the room was rather warm, she threw back her
bonnet, disclosing to view a mass of rich brown hair,
which made her look several years younger than she really
was. Nothing could be more apparently kind and sincere
than were her words of sympathy, nothing more
soothing than the sound of her voice; and when she for
a moment raised Mrs. Hamilton, while she adjusted her
pillows, the sick woman declared that never before had
any one done it so gently or so well.
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Mrs. Carter was just resuming her seat, when, in the
adjoining hall, there was the sound of a heavy tread, and
had Mrs. Hamilton been at all suspicious of her visitor,
she would have wondered at the flush which deepened on
her cheek when the door opened, and Mr. Hamilton stood
in their midst. On seeing a stranger, he turned to leave,
but his wife immediately introduced him, and seating
himself upon the sofa, he remarked, “I have seen you
frequently in church, Mrs. Carter, but I believe I have
never spoken with you before.”
A peculiar expression flitted over her features at these
words, an expression which Mr. Hamilton noticed, and
which awoke remembrances of something unpleasant,
though he could not tell what.
“Where have I seen her before?” thought he, as she
bade them good night, promising to come again and stay
a longer time. “Where have I seen her before?” and
then involuntarily his thoughts went back to the time,
years and years ago, when a wild young man in college,
he had thoughtlessly trifled with the handsome daughter
of his landlady. Even now he seemed to hear her last
words, as he bade her farewell: “You may go, Ernest
Hamilton, and forget me if you can, but Luella does not
so easily forget; and remember, when least you expect
it, we shall meet again.”
Could this strange being, with honeyed words and winning
ways, be that fiery, vindictive girl? Impossible!
and satisfied with this conclusion, Mr. Hamilton resumed
his evening paper.
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CHAPTER II. LENORA AND HER MOTHER.
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From the windows of a small, white cottage, at the extremity
of Glenwood village, Lenora Carter watched for
her mother's return. “She stays long,” thought she,
“but it bodes success to her plan; though when did she
undertake a thing and fail!”
The fall of the gate-latch was heard, and in a moment
Mrs. Carter was with her daughter, whose first exclamation
was, “What a little eternity you 've been gone!
Did you renew your early vows to the old man?”
“I 've no vows to renew,” answered Mrs. Carter, “but
I 've paved the way well, and got invited to call again.”
“Oh, capital!” said Lenora. “It takes you, mother, to
do up things, after all; but, really, was Mrs. Hamilton
pleased with you?”
“Judging by the pressure of her hand when she bade
me good-by, I should say she was,” answered Mrs. Carter;
and Lenora continued: “Did you see old Moneybags?”
“Lenora, child, you must not speak so disrespectfully
of Mr. Hamilton,” said Mrs. Carter.
“I beg your pardon,” answered Lenora, while her
mother continued: “I saw him, but do not think he recognized
me; and perhaps it is as well that he should
not, until I have made myself indispensable to him and
his family.”
“Which you will never do with the haughty Mag, I
am sure,” said Lenora; “but tell me, is the interior of
the house as handsome as the exterior?”
“Far more so,” was the reply; and Mrs. Carter
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proceeded to enumerate the many costly articles of furniture
she had seen.
She was interrupted by Lenora, who asked, “How
long, think you, will the incumbrance live?”
“Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, “you shall not talk so.
No one wishes Mrs. Hamilton to die; but if such an afflictive
dispensation does occur, I trust we shall all be
resigned.”
“Oh, I keep forgetting that you are acting the part of
a resigned widow; but I, thank fortune, have no part to
act, and can say what I please.”
“And spoil all our plans, too, by your foolish babbling,”
interposed Mrs. Carter.
“Let me alone for that,” answered Lenora. “I haven't
been trained by such a mother for nothing. But, seriously,
how is Mrs. Hamilton's health?”
“She is very low, and cannot possibly live long,” was
the reply.
Here there was a pause in the conversation, during
which we will take the opportunity of introducing more
fully to our readers the estimable Mrs. Carter and her
daughter. Mr. Hamilton was right when he associated
the resigned widow with his old flame, Luella Blackburn,
whom he had never seriously thought of marrying,
though by way of pastime he had frequently teased, tormented,
and flattered her. Luella was ambitious, artful,
and designing. Wealth and position was the goal at
which she aimed. Both of these she knew Ernest Hamilton
possessed, and she had felt greatly pleased at his evident
preference. When, therefore, at the end of his college
course he left her with a few commonplace remarks,
such as he would have spoken to any familiar acquaintance,
her rage knew no bounds; and in the anger of the
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moment she resolved, sooner or later, to be revenged
upon him.
Years, however, passed on, and a man whom she
thought wealthy offered her his hand. She accepted it,
and found, too late, that she was wedded to poverty.
This aroused the evil of her nature to such an extent, that
her husband's life became one of great unhappiness, and
four years after Lenora's birth, he left her. Several
years later she succeeded in procuring a divorce, although
she still retained his name. Recently she had heard of
his death, and about the same time, too, she heard that
the wife of Ernest Hamilton was dying. Suddenly a wild
scheme entered her mind. She would remove to the village
of Glenwood, would ingratiate herself into the favor
of Mrs. Hamilton, win her confidence and love, and then,
when she was dead, the rest she fancied would be an easy
matter, for she knew that Mr. Hamilton was weak, and
easily flattered.
For several weeks they had been in Glenwood, impatiently
waiting an opportunity for making the acquaintance
of the Hamiltons. But as neither Margaret nor
Carrie called, Lenora became discouraged, and one day
exclaimed, “I should like to know what you are going
to do. There is no probability of that proud Mag's calling
on me. How I hate her, with her big black eyes and
hateful ways!”
“Patience, patience,” said Mrs. Carter, “I 'll manage
it; as Mrs. Hamilton is sick, it will be perfectly proper
for me to go and see her;” and then was planned the
visit which we have described.
“Oh, won't it be grand!” said Lenora, that night, as
she sat sipping her tea, “Won't it be grand, if you do
succeed, and won't I lord it over Miss Margaret! As
for that little white-faced Carrie, she's too insipid for
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one to trouble herself about, and I dare say thinks you
a very nice woman, for how can her Sabbath-school
teacher be otherwise;” and a satirical laugh echoed
through the room. Suddenly springing up, Lenora
glanced at herself in the mirror, and turning to her
mother, said, “Did you hear when Walter is expected,
and am I so very ugly looking?”
While Mrs. Carter is preparing an answer to the first
question, we, for the sake of our readers, will answer the
last one. Lenora was a little, dark-looking girl, about
eighteen years of age. Her eyes were black, her face
was black, and her hair was black, standing out from her
head in short, thick curls, which gave to her features a
strange, witch-like expression. From her mother she
had inherited the same sweet, cooing voice, the same
gliding, noiseless footsteps, which had led some of their
acquaintance to accuse them of what, in the days of New
England witchcraft, would have secured their passport to
another world.
Lenora had spoken truthfully when she said that she had
not been trained by such a mother for nothing, for whatever
of evil appeared in her conduct was more the result
of her mother's training than of a naturally bad disposition.
At times, her mother petted and caressed her, and
again, in a fit of ill humor, drove her from the room,
taunting her with the strong resemblance which she bore
to the man whom she had once called father! On such
occasions, Lenora was never at a loss for words, and the
scenes which sometimes occurred were too disgraceful
for repetition. On one subject, however, they were
united, and that was in their efforts to become inmates
of the Homestead on the Hillside. In the accomplishment
of this, Lenora had a threefold object: first, it
would secure her a luxuriant home; second, she would
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be thrown in the way of Walter Hamilton, who was
about finishing his college course; and last, though not
least, it would be such a triumph over Margaret, who, she
fancied, treated her with cold indifference.
Long after the hour of midnight was rung from the
village clock, the widow and her daughter sat by their
fireside, forming plans for the future, and when at last
they retired to sleep, it was to dream of funeral processions,
bridal favors, step-children, half-sisters, and double
connections all around.
CHAPTER III. ONE STEP TOWARD THE HOMESTEAD.
Weeks passed on, and so necessary to the comfort of
the invalid did the presence of Mrs. Carter become, that
at last, by particular request, she took up her abode at
the homestead, becoming Mrs. Hamilton's constant nurse
and attendant. Lenora, for the time being, was sent to
the house of a friend, who lived not far distant. When
Margaret Hamilton learned of the arrangement, she opposed
it with all her force.
“Send her away, mother,” said she one evening;
“please send her away, for I cannot endure her presence,
with her oily words and silent footsteps. She reminds
me of the serpent, who decoyed Eve into eating that apple,
and I always feel an attack of the nightmare, whenever
I know that her big, black eyes are fastened upon
me.”
“How differently people see,” laughed Carrie, who was
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sitting by. “Why, Mag, I always fancy her to be in a
nightmare when your big eyes light upon her.”
“It's because she knows she's guilty,” answered Mag,
her words and manner warming up with the subject.
“Say, mother, won't you send her off? It seems as
though a dark shadow falls upon us all the moment she
enters the house.”
“She is too invaluable a nurse to be discharged for a
slight whim,” answered Mrs. Hamilton. “Besides, she
bears the best of reputations, and I don't see what possible
harm can come of her being here.”
Margaret sighed, for though she knew full well the “possible
harm” which might come of it, she could not tell it
to her pale, dying mother; and ere she had time for any
answer, the black bombasin dress, white linen collar, and
white, smooth face of Widow Carter moved silently into
the room. There was a gleam of intense hatred in the
dark eyes which for a moment flashed on Margaret's face,
and then a soft hand gently stroked the glossy hair of
the indignant girl, and in the most musical tones imaginable,
a low voice murmured, “Maggie, dear, you look
flushed and wearied. Are you quite well?”
“Perfectly so,” answered Margaret; and then rising,
she left the room, but not until she had heard her mother
say, “Dear Mrs. Carter, I am so glad you've come!”
“Is everybody bewitched,” thought Mag, as she repaired
to her chamber, “father, mother, Carrie, and all?
How I wish Walter was here. He always sees things as
I do.”
Margaret Hamilton was a high spirited, intelligent girl,
about nineteen years of age. She was not beautiful, but
had you asked for the finest looking girl in all Glenwood,
Mag would surely have been pointed out. She was
rather above the medium height, and in her whole
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bearing there was a quiet dignity, which many mistook for
hauteur. Naturally frank, affectionate, and kind-hearted,
she was, perhaps, a little strong in her prejudices, which,
when once satisfactorily formed, could not easily be
shaken.
For Mrs. Carter she had conceived a strong dislike, for
she believed her to be an artful, hypocritical woman;
and now, as she sat by the window in her room, her heart
swelled with indignation toward one who had thus
usurped her place by her mother's bedside, whom Carrie
was learning to confide in, and of whom even the
father said, “she is a most excellent woman.”
“I will write to Walter,” said she, “and tell him to
come immediately.”
Suiting the action to the word, she drew up her writing
desk, and soon a finished letter was lying before her.
Ere she had time to fold and direct it, a loud cry from
her young brother Willie, summoned her for a few moments
from the room, and on her return, she met in the
doorway the black bombasin and linen collar.
“Madam,” said she, “did you wish for anything?”
“Yes, dear,” was the soft answer, which, however, in
this case failed to turn away wrath. “Yes, dear, your
mother said you knew where there were some fine bits
of linen.”
“And could not Carrie come for them?” asked Mag.
“Yes, dear, but she looks so delicate that I do not like
to send her up these long stairs oftener than is necessary.
Have n't you noticed how pale she is getting of late? I
shouldn't be at all surprised—;” but before the sentence
was finished, the linen was found, and the door
closed upon Mrs. Carter.
A new idea had been awakened in Margaret's mind,
and for the first time she thought how much her sister
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really had changed. Carrie, who was four years younger
than Margaret, had ever been delicate, and her parents
had always feared that not long could they keep her; but
though each winter her cough had returned with increased
severity, though the veins on her white brow
grew more distinct, and her large, blue eyes glowed with
unwonted luster, still Margaret had never before dreamed
of danger, never thought that soon her sister's voice
would be missed, and that Carrie would be gone. But
she thought of it now, and laying her head upon the table,
wept for a time in silence.
At length, drying her tears, she folded her letter and
took it to the post-office. As she was returning home,
she was met by a servant, who exclaimed, “Run, Miss
Margaret, run; your mother is dying, and Mrs. Carter
sent me for you!”
Swift as the mountain chamois, Margaret sped up the
long, steep hill, and in a few moments stood within her
mother's sick-room. Supported in the arms of Mrs. Carter
lay the dying woman, while her eyes, already overshadowed
with the mists of coming death, wandered anxiously
around the room, as if in quest of some one. The
moment Margaret appeared, a satisfied smile broke over
her wasted features, and beckoning her daughter to her
bedside, she whispered, “Dear Maggie, you did not think
I'd die so soon, when you went away.”
A burst of tears was Maggie's only answer, as she passionately
kissed the cold, white lips, which had never
breathed aught to her save words of love and gentleness.
Far different, however, would have been her reply, had
she known the reason of her mother's question. Not
long after she had left the house for the office, Mrs.
Hamilton had been taken worse, and the physician, who
chanced to be present, pronounced her dying. Instantly
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the alarmed husband summoned together his household,
but Mag was missing. No one had seen her; no one
knew where she was, until Mrs. Carter, who had been
some little time absent from the room, reëntered it, saying,
“Margaret had started for the post-office with a letter,
when I sent a servant to tell her of her mother's danger,
but for some reason she kept on, though I dare say
she will soon be back.”
As we well know, the substance of this speech was
true, though the impression which Mrs. Carter's words
conveyed was entirely false. For the advancement of her
own cause, she felt that it was necessary to weaken the
high estimation in which Mr. Hamilton held his daughter,
and she fancied that the mother's death-bed was as
fitting a place where to commence operations as she could
select.
As Margaret hung over her mother's pillow, the false
woman, as if to confirm the assertion she had made,
leaned forward and said, “Robin told you, I suppose? I
sent him to do so.”
Margaret nodded assent, while a deeper gloom fell
upon the brow of Mr. Hamilton, who stood with folded
arms, watching the advance of the great destroyer. It
came at last, and though no perceptible change heralded
its approach, there was one fearful spasm, one long drawn
sigh, a striving of the eye for one more glimpse of the
loved ones gathered near, and then Mrs. Hamilton was
dead. On the bosom of Mrs. Carter her life was breathed
away, and when all was over, that lady laid gently down
her burden, carefully adjusted the tumbled covering, and
then stepping to the window, looked out, while the
stricken group deplored their loss.
Long and bitterly over their dead they wept, but not
on one of that weeping band fell the bolt so crushingly
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as upon Willie, the youngest of the flock, the child four
summers old, who had ever lived in the light of his mother's
love. They had told him she would die, but he understood
them not, for never before had he looked on
death; and now, when to his childish words of love
his mother made no answer, most piteously rang out
the infantile cry, “Mother, oh, my mother, who'll be my
mother now?”
Caressingly, a small, white hand was laid on Willie's
yellow curls, but ere the words of love were spoken,
Margaret took the little fellow in her arms, and whispered,
through her tears, “I'll be your mother, darling.”
Willie brushed the tear-drops from his sister's cheek,
and laying his fair, round face upon her neck, said, “And
who'll be Maggie's mother? Mrs. Carter?”
“Never! never!” answered Mag, while to the glance
of hatred and defiance cast upon her, she returned one
equally scornful and determined.
Soon from the village there came words of sympathy
and offers of assistance; but Mrs. Carter could do everything,
and in her blandest tones she declined the services
of the neighbors, refusing even to admit them into the
presence of Margaret and Carrie, who, she said, were so
much exhausted as to be unable to bear the fresh burst
of grief which the sight of an old friend would surely
produce. So the neighbors went home, and, as the world
will ever do, descanted upon the probable result of Mrs.
Carter's labors at the homestead. Thus, ere Ernest Hamilton
had been three days a widower, many in fancy had
wedded him to Mrs Carter, saying that nowhere could
he find so good a mother for his children.
And truly she did seem to be indispensable in that
house of mourning. 'Twas she who saw that everything
was done, quietly and in order; 't was she who so neatly
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arranged the muslin shroud; 't was her arms that supported
the half fainting Carrie when first her eye rested
on her mother, coffined for the grave; 't was she who
whispered words of comfort to the desolate husband; and
she, too, it was, who, on the night when Walter was expected
home, kindly sat up until past midnight to receive
him!
She had read Mag's letter, and by being first to welcome
the young man home, she hoped to remove from his mind
any prejudice which he might feel for her, and by her
bland smiles and gentle words to lure him into the belief
that she was perfect, and Margaret uncharitable. Partially
she succeeded, too, for when next morning Mag
expressed a desire that Mrs. Carter would go home, he
replied, “I think you judge her wrongfully; she seems to
be a most amiable, kind-hearted woman.”
“Et tu, Brute!” Mag could have said, but 't was neither
the time nor the place, and linking her arm within her
brother's, she led him into the adjoining room, where
stood their mother's coffin.
CHAPTER IV. AFTER THE BURIAL.
Across the bright waters of the silvery lake which lay
not far from Glenwood village, over the grassy hillside,
and down the long, green valley, had floated the notes of
the tolling bell. In the Hamilton mansion, sympathizing
friends had gathered, and through the crowded parlors a
solemn hush had reigned, broken only by the voice of the
white-haired man of God, who in trembling tones prayed
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for the bereaved ones. Over the costly coffin tear-wet
faces had bent, and on the marble features of her who
slept within it, had been pressed the passionate kisses of
a long, a last farewell.
Through the shady garden and across the running
brook, whose waters this day murmured more sadly than
't was their wont to do, the funeral train had passed; and
in the dark, moist earth, by the side of many other still,
pale sleepers, who offered no remonstrance when among
them another came, they had buried the departed.
From the windows of the homestead lights were gleaming,
and in the common sitting-room sat Ernest Hamilton,
and by his side his four motherless children. In the
stuffed arm chair, sacred for the sake of one who had
called it hers, reclined the black bombasin and linen collar
of Widow Carter!
She had, as she said, fully intended to return home immediately
after the burial, but there were so many little
things to be seen to, so much to be done, which Margaret,
of course, did not feel like doing, that she decided to stay
until after supper, together with Lenora, who had come
to the funeral. When supper was over, and there was no
longer an excuse for lingering, she found, very greatly to
her surprise and chagrin, no doubt, that the clouds which
all day had looked dark and angry, were now pouring
rain.
“What shall I do?” she exclaimed in great apparent
distress; then stepping to the door of the sitting-room,
she said, “Maggie, dear, can you lend me an umbrella? It
is raining very hard, and I do not wish to go home without
one; I will send it back to-morrow.”
“Certainly,” answered Margaret. “Umbrella and
overshoes, too;” and rising, she left the room to procure
them.
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“But you surely are not going out in this storm, “said
Mr. Hamilton; while Carrie, who really liked Mrs. Carter,
and felt that it would be more lonely when she was
gone, exclaimed eagerly, “Oh, don't leave us to-night,
Mrs. Carter. Don't.”
“Yes, I think I must,” was the answer, while Mr. Hamilton
continued: “You had better stay; but if you insist
upon going, I will order the carriage, as you must not
walk.”
“Rather than put you to all that trouble, I will remain,”
said Mrs. Carter; and when Mag returned with
two umbrellas and two pair of overshoes, she found the
widow comfortably seated in her mother's arm chair,
while on the stool at her side, sat Lenora looking not unlike
a little imp, with her wild, black face, and short, thick curls.
Walter Hamilton had not had much opportunity for
scanning the face of Mrs. Carter, but now, as she sat
there with the firelight flickering over her features, he
fancied that he could trace marks of the treacherous deceit
of which Mag had warned him; and when the full
black eyes rested upon Margaret, he failed not to note
the glance of scorn which flashed from them, and which
changed to a look of affectionate regard the moment she
saw she was observed. “There is something wrong
about her,” thought he, “and the next time I am alone
with Mag I'll ask what it is she fears from this woman.”
That night, in the solitude of their room, mother and
child communed together as follows: “I do believe,
mother, you are twin sister to the old one himself. Why,
who would have thought, when first you made that
friendly visit, that in five weeks' time both of us would
be snugly ensconced in the best chamber of the homestead?”
“If you think we are in the best chamber, you are
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greatly mistaken,” replied Mrs. Carter. “Margaret
Hamilton has power enough yet to keep us out of that.
Didn't she look crest-fallen, though, when she found I was
going to stay, notwithstanding her very disinterested
offer of umbrellas and overshoes? but I'll pay it all back
when I become—”
“Mistress of the house,” added Lenora. “Why not
speak out plainly? Or are you afraid the walls have ears,
and that the devoted Mrs. Carter's speeches would not
sound well, repeated? Oh, how sanctimonious you did
look, to-day, when you were talking pious to Carrie! I
actually had to force a sneeze, to keep from laughing
outright, though she, little simpleton, swallowed it all,
and I dare say wonders where you keep your wings!
But really, mother, I hope you don't intend to pet her so
always, for 't would be more than it's worth to see it.”
“I guess I know how to manage,” returned Mrs. Carter.
“There's nothing will win a parent's affection so
soon as to pet the children.”
“And so I suppose you expect Mr. Hamilton to pet
this beautiful child!” said Lenora, laughing loudly at
the idea, and waltzing back and forth before the mirror.
“Lenora! behave; I will not see you conduct so,”
said the widow; to which the young lady replied, “Shut
your eyes, and then you can't!”
Meantime, an entirely different conversation was going
on in another part of the house, where sat Walter Hamilton,
with his arm thrown affectionately around Mag,
who briefly told of what she feared would result from
Mrs. Carter's intimacy at their house.
“Impossible!” said the young man, starting to his
feet. “Impossible! our father has too much sense to
marry again, any way, and much more, to marry one so
greatly inferior to our own dear mother.”
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“I hope it may prove so,” answered Mag; “but, with
all due respect for our father, you know and I know that
mother's was the stronger mind, the controlling spirit;
and now that she is gone, father will be more easily deceived.”
Margaret told the truth; for her mother had possessed
a strong intelligent mind, and was greatly the superior of
her father, who, as we have before remarked, was rather
weak, and easily flattered. Always sincere himself in
what he said, he could not believe that other people were
aught than what they seemed to be, and thus oftentimes
his confidence had been betrayed by those in whom he
trusted. As yet, he had, of course, entertained no thought
of ever making Mrs. Carter his wife; but her society was
agreeable, her words and manner soothing, and when, on
the day following the burial, she actually took her departure,
bag, baggage, Lenora, and all, he felt how doubly
lonely was the old homestead, and wondered why she
could not stay. There was room enough, and then Margaret
was too young to assume the duties of housekeeper.
Other men, in similar circumstances, had hired housekeepers,
and why could not he? He would speak to Mag
about it that very night. But when evening came, Walter,
Carrie, and Willie all were present, and he found
no opportunity of seeing Margaret alone; neither did any
occur until after Walter had returned to college, which
he did the week following his mother's death.
That night the little parlor at the cottage where dwelt
the Widow Carter, looked unusually snug and cozy. It
was autumn, and as the evenings were rather cool, a
cheerful wood fire was blazing on the hearth. Before it
stood a tasteful little workstand, near which were seated
Lenora and her mother, the one industriously knitting,
and the other occasionally touching the strings of her
-- 030 --
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guitar, which was suspended from her neck by a crimson
ribbon. On the sideboard stood a fruit dish loaded with
red and golden apples, and near it a basket filled with the
rich purple grapes.
That day in the street Lenora had met Mr. Hamilton,
who asked if her mother would be at home that evening,
saying he intended to call for the purpose of settling the
bill which he owed her for services rendered to his family
in their late affliction.
“When I once get him here, I will keep him as long as
possible,” said Mrs. Carter; “and, Lenora, child, if he stays
late, say till nine o'clock, you had better go quietly to bed.”
“Or into the next room, and listen,” thought Lenora.
Seven o'clock came, and on the graveled walk there
was heard the sound of footsteps, and in a moment Ernest
Hamilton stood in the room, shaking the warm hand
of the widow, who was delighted to see him, but so sorry
to find him looking pale and thin! Rejecting a seat in
the comfortable rocking-chair, which Lenora pushed
toward him, he proceeded at once to business, and taking
from his purse fifteen dollars, passed them toward Mrs.
Carter, asking if that would remunerate her for the three
weeks' services in his family.
But Mrs. Carter thrust them aside, saying, “Sit down,
Mr. Hamilton, sit down. I have a great deal to ask you
about Maggie and dear Carrie's health.”
“And sweet little Willie,” chimed in Lenora.
Accordingly, Mr. Hamilton sat down, and so fast did
Mrs. Carter talk, that the clock was pointing to half past
eight ere he got another chance to offer his bills. Then,
with the look of a much injured woman, Mrs. Carter declined
the money, saying, “Is it possible, Mr. Hamilton,
that you suppose my services can be bought! What I
did for your wife, I would do for any one who needed
-- 031 --
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me, though for but few could I entertain the same feelings
I did for her. Short as was our acquaintance, she
seemed to me like a beloved sister; and now that she is
gone, I feel that we have lost an invaluable treasure—”
Here Mrs. Carter broke down entirely, and was obliged
to raise her cambric handkerchief to her eyes, while Lenora
walked to the window to conceal her emotions,
whatever they might have been! When the agitation of
the company had somewhat subsided, Mr. Hamilton
again insisted, and again Mrs. Carter refused. At last,
finding her perfectly inexorable, he proceeded to express
his warmest thanks and deepest gratitude for what she
had done, saying he should ever feel indebted to her for
her great kindness; then, as the clock struck nine, he
arose to go, in spite of Mrs. Carter's zealous efforts to detain
him longer.
“Call again,” said she, as she lighted him to the door;
“call again, and we will talk over old times, when we
were young, and lived in New Haven!”
Mr. Hamilton started, and looking her full in the face,
exclaimed, “Luella Blackburn! It is as I at first suspected;
but who would have thought it!”
“Yes, — I am Luella,” said Mrs. Carter; “though
greatly changed, I trust, from the Luella you once knew,
and of whom even I have no very pleasant reminiscences;
but call again, and I will tell you of many of your old
classmates.”
Mr. Hamilton would have gone almost anywhere for
the sake of hearing from his classmates, many of whom
he greatly esteemed; and as in this case the “anywhere”
was only at Widow Carter's, the idea was not altogether
distasteful to him, and when he bade her good night, he
was under a promise to call again soon. All hopes, however,
of procuring her for his housekeeper were given up,
-- 032 -- p598-037
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for if she resented his offer of payment for what she had
already done, she surely would be doubly indignant at his
last proposed plan. After becoming convinced of this
fact, it is a little strange how suddenly he found that he
did not need a housekeeper—that Margaret, who before
could not do at all, could now do very well — as well as
anybody. And Margaret did do well, both as housekeeper
and mother of little Willie, who seemed to have
transferred to her the affection he had borne for his
mother.
At intervals during the autumn, Mrs. Carter called, always
giving a world of good advice, patting Carrie's pale
cheek, kissing Willie, and then going away. But as none
of her calls were ever returned, they gradually became
less frequent, and as the winter advanced, ceased altogether;
while Margaret, hearing nothing and seeing nothing,
began to forget her fears, and to laugh at them as
having been groundless.
CHAPTER V. KATE KIRBY.
The little brooklet, which danced so merrily by the
homestead burial-place, and then flowed on in many
graceful turns and evolutions, finally lost itself in a glossy
mill-pond, whose waters, when the forest trees were
stripped of their foliage, gleamed and twinkled in the
smoky autumn light, or lay cold and still beneath the
breath of winter. During this season of the year, from
the upper windows of the homestead the mill-pond was
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
discernible, together with a small red building which
stood upon its banks.
For many years this house had been occupied by Mr.
Kirby, who had been a schoolboy with Ernest Hamilton,
and who, though naturally intelligent, had never aspired
to any higher employment than that of being miller on
the farm of his old friend. Three years before our story
opens, Mr. Kirby had died, and a stranger had been employed
to take his place. Mrs. Kirby, however, was so
much attached to her woodland home and its forest scenery,
that she still continued to occupy the low red house
together with her daughter Kate, who sighed for no better
or more elegant home, although rumor whispered that
there was in store for her a far more costly dwelling, even
the “Homestead on the Hillside.”
Currently was it reported, that during Walter Hamilton's
vacations, the winding footpath, which followed the
course of the streamlet down to the mill-pond, was trodden
more frequently than usual. The postmaster's wife,
too, had hinted strongly of certain ominous letters from
New Haven, which regularly came directed to Kate,
when Walter was not at home; so, putting together
these two facts, and adding to them the high estimation
in which Mrs. Kirby and her daughter were known to be
held by the Hamiltons, it was generally conceded that
there could be no shadow of doubt concerning the state
of affairs between the heir apparent of the old homestead
and the daughter of the poor miller.
Kate was a universal favorite, and by nearly all was it
thought, that in everything save money she was fully the
equal of Walter Hamilton. To a face and form of the
most perfect beauty, she added a degree of intelligence
and sparkling wit, which, in all the rides, parties, and
fetes given by the young people of Glenwood, caused her
-- 034 --
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society to be chosen in preference to those whose fathers
counted their money by thousands.
A few there were who said that Kate's long intimacy
with Margaret Hamilton had made her proud; but in the
rude dwellings and crazy tenements which skirted the
borders of Glenwood village, was many a blind old woman,
and many a hoary-headed man, who, in their daily
prayers, remembered the beautiful Kate, the “fair forest-flower,”
who came so oft among them with her sweet
young face and gentle words. For Kate, both Margaret
and Carrie Hamilton already felt a sisterly affection, while
their father smiled graciously upon her, secretly hoping,
however, that his son would make a more brilliant match,
but resolving not to interfere, if at last his choice should
fall upon her.
One afternoon, early in April, as Margaret sat in her
chamber, busy upon a piece of needle-work, the door
softly opened, and a mass of bright chestnut curls became
visible; next appeared the laughing blue eyes; and finally
the whole of Kate Kirby bounded into the room,
saying, “Good afternoon, Maggie; are you very busy,
and wish I had n't come?”
“I am never too busy to see you,” answered Margaret,
at the same time pushing toward Kate the little ottoman,
on which she always sat when in that room.
Kate took the proffered seat, and throwing aside her
bonnet, began with, “Maggie, I want to tell you something,
though I don't know as it is quite right to do so;
still you may as well hear it from me as any one.”
“Do pray tell,” answered Mag, “I am dying with curiosity.”
So Kate smoothed down her black silk apron, twisted one
of her curls into a horridly ugly shape, and commenced
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
with, “What kind of a woman is that Mrs. Carter, down
in the village?”
Instantly Margaret's suspicions were roused, and starting
as if a serpent had stung her, she exclaimed, “Mrs.
Carter! is it of her you will tell me? She is a most dangerous
woman—a woman whom your mother would call
a `snake in the grass.”'
“Precisely so,” answered Kate. “That is just what
mother says of her, and yet nearly all the village are
ready to fall down and worship her.”
“Let them, then,” said Mag; “I have no objections,
provided they keep their molten calf to themselves. No
one wants her here. But what is it about her? tell me.”
Briefly then Kate told how Mr. Hamilton was, and for
a long time had been, in the habit of spending one evening
every week with Mrs. Carter; and that people, not
without good cause, were already pointing her out as the
future mistress of the homestead.
“Never, never!” cried Mag, vehemently. “Never
shall she come here. She our mother, indeed! It shall
not be, if I can prevent it.”
After a little further conversation, Kate departed, leaving
Mag to meditate upon the best means by which to avert
the threatened evil. What Kate had told her was true.
Mr. Hamilton had so many questions to ask concerning his
old classmates, and Mrs. Carter had so much to tell, that,
though they had worked industriously all winter, they
were not through yet; neither would they be until Mrs.
Carter found herself again within the old homestead.
The night following Kate's visit, Mag determined to
speak with her father; but immediately after tea he went
out, saying he should not return until nine o'clock. With
a great effort Mag forced down the angry words which she
felt rising within her, and then seating herself at her work,
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
she resolved to await his return. Not a word on the subject
did she say to Carrie, who retired to her room at
half past eight, as was her usual custom. Alone, now,
Margaret waited. Nine, ten, eleven had been struck,
and then into the sitting-room came Mr. Hamilton, greatly
astonished at finding his daughter there.
“Why, Margaret,” said he, “why are you sitting up
so late?”
“If it is late for me, it is late for you,” answered Margaret,
who, now that the trial had come, felt the awkwardness
of the task she had undertaken.
“But I had business,” answered Mr. Hamilton; and
Margaret, looking him steadily in the face, asked, “Is
not your business of a nature which equally concerns us
all?”
A momentary flush passed over his features, as he replied,
“What do you mean? I do not comprehend.”
Hurriedly, and in broken sentences, Margaret told him
what she meant, and then tremblingly she waited for his
answer. Frowning angrily, he spoke to his daughter the
first harsh words which had ever passed his lips toward
either of his children.
“Go to your room, and don't presume to interfere with
me again. I trust I am competent to tend to my own
matters!”
Almost convulsively Margaret's arms closed round her
father's neck, as she said, “Don't speak so to me, father.
You never did before — never would now, but for her.
Oh, father, promise me, by the memory of my angel
mother, never to see her again. She is a base, designing
woman.”
Mr. Hamilton unwound his daughter's arms from his
neck, and speaking more gently, said, “What proof have
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
you of that assertion? Give me proof, and I promise to
do your bidding.”
But Mag had no such proof at hand, and she could only
reiterate her suspicions, her belief, which, of course, failed
to convince the biased man, who, rising, said, “Your
mother confided and trusted in her, so why should not
you?”
The next moment Margaret was alone. For a long
time she wept, and it was not until the eastern horizon
began to grow gray in the morning twilight, that she
laid her head upon her pillow, and forgot in sleep how
unhappy she had been. Her words, however, were not
without their effect, for when the night came round on
which her father was accustomed to pay his weekly visit,
he staid at home, spending the whole evening with his
daughters, and appearing really gratified at Margaret's
efforts to entertain him. But, alas! the chain of the
widow was too firmly thrown around him for a daughter's
hand alone to sever the fast bound links.
When the next Thursday evening came, Mag was confined
to her room by a sick headache, from which she had
been suffering all day. As night approached, she frequently
asked if her father were below. At last, the
front door opened, and she heard his step upon the piazza.
Starting up, she hurried to the window, while at
the same moment Mr. Hamilton paused, and raising his
eyes, saw the white face of his daughter pressed against
the window-pane, as she looked imploringly after him;
but there was not enough of power in a single look to deter
him, and, wafting her a kiss, he turned away. Sadly
Margaret watched him, until he disappeared down the
long hill; then, returning to her couch, she wept bitterly.
Meantime, Mrs. Carter, who had been greatly chagrined
at the non-appearance of Mr. Hamilton the week before,
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
was now confidently expecting him. He had not yet
asked her to be his wife, and the delay somewhat annoyed
both herself and Lenora.
“I declare, mother,” said Lenora, “I should suppose
you might contrive up something to bring matters to a
focus. I think it's perfectly ridiculous to see two old
crones, who ought to be trotting their grandchildren,
cooing and simpering away at each other, and all for
nothing, too.”
“Can't you be easy a while longer?” asked Mrs. Carter;
“hasn't he said everything he can say, except, `will
you marry me?”'
“A very important question, too,” returned Lenora;
“and I don't know what business you have to expect anything
from him until it is asked.”
“Mr. Hamilton is proud,” answered Mrs. Carter—“is
afraid of doing anything which might possibly lower him.
Now, if by any means I could make him believe that I
had received an offer from some one fully if not more
than his equal, I think it would settle the matter, and I've
decided upon the following plan. I'll write a proposal
myself, sign old Judge B—'s name to it, and next time
Mr. Hamilton comes, let him surprise me in reading it.
Then, as he is such a dear, long tried friend, it will be
quite proper for me to confide in him, and ask his
advice.”
Lenora's eyes opened wider, as she exclaimed, “My
gracious! who, but you, would ever have thought of
that.”
Accordingly the letter was written, sealed, directed,
broken open, laughed over, and laid away in the stand
drawer.
“Mr. Hamilton, mother,” said Lenora, as half an hour
afterward, she ushered that gentleman into the room.
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
But so wholly absorbed was the black bombasin and linen
collar in the contents of an open letter, which she held in
her hand, that the words were twice repeated,—“Mr.
Hamilton, mother”— ere she raised her eyes! Then coming
forward with well-feigned confusion, she apologized
for not having observed him before, saying she was sure
he would excuse her if he knew the contents of her letter.
Of course he wanted to know, and of course she didn't
want to tell. He was too polite to urge her, and the conversation
soon took another channel.
After a time Lenora left the room, and Mrs. Carter,
again speaking of the letter, begged to make a confidant
of Mr. Hamilton, and ask his advice. He heard the letter
read through, and after a moment's silence, asked,
“Do you like him, Mrs. Carter?”
“Why,— no,— I don't think I do,” said she, “but then
the widow's lot is so lonely.”
“I know it is,” sighed he, while through the keyhole
of the opposite door came something which sounded very
much like a stifled laugh! It was the hour of Ernest
Hamilton's temptation, and but for the remembrance of
the sad, white face which had gazed so sorrowfully at him
from the window, he had fallen. But Maggie's presence
seemed with him,— her voice whispered in his ear, “Don't
do it, father, don't,”— and he calmly answered that it
would be a good match. But he could not, no he could
not advise her to marry him; so he qualified what he had
said by asking her not to be in a hurry,— to wait awhile.
The laugh through the keyhole was changed to a hiss,
which Mrs. Carter said must be the wind, although there
was not enough stirring to move the rose bushes which
grew by the door step!
So much was Mr. Hamilton held in thrall by the widow,
that on his way home he hardly knew whether to be glad
-- 040 -- p598-045
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
or sorry that he had not proposed. If Judge B—
would marry her she surely was good enough for him.
Anon, too, he recalled her hesitation about confessing
that the judge was indifferent to her. Jealousy crept in,
and completed what flattery and intrigue had commenced.
One week from that night Ernest Hamilton and Luella
Carter were engaged, but for appearance's sake, their
marriage was not to take place until the ensuing autumn.
CHAPTER VI. RAISING THE WIND.
“Where are you going now?” asked Mrs. Carter of
her daughter, as she saw her preparing to go out one
afternoon, a few weeks after the engagement.
“Going to raise the wind,” was the answer.
“Going to what?” exclaimed Mrs. Carter.
“To raise the wind! Are you deaf?” yelled Lenora.
“Raise the wind!” repeated Mrs. Carter; “what do
you mean?”
“Mean what I say,” said Lenora; and closing the door
after her she left her mother to wonder “what fresh mischief
the little torment was at.”
But she was only going to make a friendly call on
Margaret and Carrie, the latter of whom she had heard
was sick.
“Is Miss Hamilton at home?” asked she of the servant
girl, who answered her ring, and whom she had
never seen before.
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
Yes, ma'am; walk in the parlor. What name shall I
give her if you please?”
“Miss Carter,—Lenora Carter;” and the servant girl
departed, repeating to herself all the way up the stairs,
“Miss Carther,—Lenora Carther!”
“Lenora Carter want to see me!” exclaimed Mag,
who, together with Kate Kirby, was in her sister's room.
“Yes, ma'am; an' sure 'twas Miss Hampleton she was
wishin' to see,” said the Irish girl.
“Well, I shall not go down,” answered Mag. “Tell
her, Rachel, that I am otherwise engaged.”
“Oh, Maggie,” said Carrie, “why not see her? I
would if I were you.”
“Rachel can ask her up here if you wish it,” answered
Mag, “but I shall leave the room.”
“Faith, an' what shall I do?” asked Rachel, who was
fresh from “swate Ireland” and felt puzzled to know why
a “silk frock and smart bonnet” should not always be
welcome.
“Ask her up,” answered Kate. “I've never seen her
nearer than across the church and have some curiosity —”
A moment after Rachel thrust her head in at the parlor
door, saying, “If you please, ma'am, Miss Marget is
engaged, and does not want to see you, but Miss Carrie
says you may come up there.”
“Very well,” said Lenora; and tripping after the servant
girl, she was soon in Carrie's room.
After retailing nearly all the gossip of which she was
mistress, she suddenly turned to Carrie, and said, “Did
you know that your father was going to be married?”
“My father going to be married!” said Carrie, opening
her blue eyes in astonishment. “My father going to
be married! To whom, pray?”
“To a lady from the east,—one whom he used to know
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
and flirt with when he was in college!” was Lenora's
grave reply.
“What is her name?” asked Kate.
“Her name? Let me see,— Miss — Blackwell,— Blackmer,—
Blackheart. It sounds the most like Blackheart.”
“What a queer name,” said Kate, “but tell us what
opportunity has Mr. Hamilton had of renewing his early
acquaintance with the lady.”
“Don't you know he's been east this winter?” asked
Lenora.
“Yes, as far as Albany,” answered Carrie.
“Well,” continued Lenora, “'t was during his eastern
trip that the matter was settled; but pray don't repeat
it from me, except it be to Maggie, who, I dare say, will
feel glad to be relieved of her heavy responsibilities;—but
as I live, Carrie, you are crying! What is the matter?”
But Carrie made no answer, and for a time wept on in
silence. She could not endure the thought that another
would so soon take the place of her lost mother in the
household and in the affections of her father. There was,
besides, something exceedingly annoying in the manner
of her who communicated the intelligence, and secretly
Carrie felt glad that the dreaded, “Miss Blackheart” had,
of course, no Lenora to bring with her!
“Do you know all this to be true?” asked Kate.
“Perfectly true,” said Lenora. “We have friends living
in the vicinity of the lady, and there can be no mistake,
except indeed in the name, which I am not sure is
right!”
Then hastily kissing Carrie, the little hussy went away,
very well satisfied with her afternoon's call. As soon as
she was out of hearing Margaret entered her sister's room,
and on noticing Carrie's flushed cheek and red eyes,
-- 043 --
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
inquired the cause. Immediately Kate told her what Lenora
had said, but instead of weeping as Carrie had done,
she betrayed no emotion whatever.
“Why, Maggie, ain't you sorry?” asked Carrie.
“No, I am glad,” returned Mag. “I've seen all along
that sooner or later father would make himself ridiculous,
and I'd rather he'd marry forty women from the east,
than one woman not far from here whom I know.”
All that afternoon Mag tripped with unwonted gayety
about the house. A weight was lifted from her heart,
for in her estimation, any one whom her father would
marry was preferable to Mrs. Carter.
Oh, how the widow scolded the daughter, and how the
daughter laughed at the widow, when she related the particulars
of her call.
“Lenora, what could have possessed you to tell such a
lie?” said Mrs. Carter.
“Not so fast, mother mine,” answered Lenora.
“'Twasn't a lie. Mr. Hamilton is engaged to a lady
from the east. He did flirt with her in his younger days;
and, pray, didn't he have to come east when he called to
inquire after his beloved classmates, and ended by getting
checkmated! Besides I think you ought to thank me
for turning the channel of gossip in another direction,
for now you will be saved from all impertinent questions
and remarks.”
This mode of reasoning failed to convince the widow,
who felt quite willing that people should know of her
flattering prospects; and when, a few days after, Mrs.
Dr. Otis told her that Mrs. Kimball said that Polly Larkins
said, that her hired girl told her, that Mrs. Kirby's
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
hired girl told her, that she overheard Miss Kate telling
her mother, that Lenora Carter said that Mr. Hamilton
was going to be married to her mother's intimate friend,
Mrs. Carter would have denied the whole, and probably
divulged her own secret, had not Lenora, who chanced
to be present, declared, with the coolest effrontery, that
'twas all true—that her mother had promised to stand up
with them; and so folks would find it to be if they did
not die of curiosity before autumn!
Lenora, child, how can you talk so?” asked the distressed
lady, as the door closed upon her visitor.
Lenora went off into fits of explosive laughter, bounding
up and down like an India rubber ball, and at last
condescended to say, “I know what I'm about. Do you
want Mag Hamilton breaking up the match, as she surely
would do, between this and autumn, if she knew it?”
“And what can she do?” asked Mrs. Carter.
“Why, returned Lenora, “can't she write to the place
you came from, if, indeed, such a spot can be found, for
I believe you sometimes book yourself from one town
and sometimes from another? But depend upon it, you
had better take my advice and keep still, and in the denou
ément which follows, I alone shall be blamed for a
slight stretch of truth which you can easily excuse, as
“one of dear Lenora's silly, childish freaks!”
Upon second thoughts Mrs. Carter concluded to follow
her daughter's advice, and the next time Mr. Hamilton
called, she laughingly told the story which Lenora
had set afloat, saying, by way of excuse, that the dear
girl did not like to hear her mother joked on the subject
of matrimony, and had turned the attention of people
another way.
Mr. Hamilton hardly relished this, and half wished,
mayhap, as, indeed, gentlemen generally do in similar
-- 045 -- p598-050
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
circumstances, that the little “objection” in the shape of
Lenora, had never had existence, or at least had never
called the widow mother!
CHAPTER VII. THE STEP-MOTHER.
Rapidly the summer was passing away, and as autumn
drew near, the wise gossips of Glenwood began to whisper
that the lady from the east was in danger of being
supplanted in her rights by the widow, whose house Mr.
Hamilton was known to visit two or three times each
week. But Lenora had always some plausible story on
hand. “Mother and the lady had been so intimate — in
fact more than once rocked in the same cradle — and
't was no wonder Mr. Hamilton came often to a place
where he could hear so much about her.”
So when business again took Mr. Hamilton to Albany,
suspicion was wholly lulled, and Walter, on his return
from college, was told by Mag that her fears concerning
Mrs. Carter were groundless. During the spring, Carrie
had been confined to her bed, but now she seemed much
better, and after Walter had been at home awhile, he
proposed that he and his sisters should take a traveling
excursion, going first to Saratoga, thence to Lake Champlain
and Montreal, and returning home by way of Canada
and the Falls. This plan Mr. Hamilton warmly seconded,
and when Carrie asked if he would not feel lonely, he
answered, “Oh, no; Willie and I will do very well while
you are gone.”
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
“But who will stay with Willie evenings, when you
are away?” asked Mag, looking her father steadily in
the face.
Mr. Hamilton colored slightly, but after a moment, replied:
“I shall spend my evenings at home.”
“'Twill be what he hasn't done for many a week,”
thought Mag, as she again busied herself with her
preparations.
The morning came, at last, on which our travelers were
to leave. Kate Kirby had been invited to accompany
them, but her mother would not consent. “It would
give people too much chance for talk,” she said; so Kate
was obliged to content herself with going as far as the
depot, and watching, until out of sight, the car which
bore them away.
Upon the piazza stood the little group, awaiting the
arrival of the carriage, which was to convey them to the
station. Mr. Hamilton seemed unusually gloomy, and
with folded arms paced up and down the long piazza,
rarely speaking or noticing any one.
“Are you sorry we are going, father?” asked Carrie,
going up to him. “If you are, I will gladly stay with
you.”
Mr. Hamilton paused, and pushing back the fair hair
from his daughter's white brow, he kissed her tenderly,
saying, “No, Carrie; I want you to go. The journey
will do you good, for you are getting too much the look
your poor mother used to wear.”
Why thought he then of Carrie's mother? Was it because
he knew that ere his child returned to him, another
would be in that mother's place? Anon, Margaret came
near, and motioning Carrie away, Mr. Hamilton took his
other daughter's hand, and led her to the end of the
piazza, where could easily be seen the little grave-yard,
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and tall white monument pointing toward the bright blue
sky, where dwelt the one whose grave that costly marble
marked.
Pointing out the spot to Margaret, he said, “Tell me
truly, Maggie, did you love your father or your mother
best?”
Mag looked wonderingly at him a moment, and then
replied, “While mother lived, I loved her more than you,
but now that she is dead, I think of and love you as both
father and mother.”
“And will you always love me thus?” asked he.
“Always,” was Mag's reply, as she looked curiously in
her father's face, and thinking that he had not said what
he intended to when first he drew her there.
Just then the carriage drove up, and after a few good-bys
and parting words, Ernest Hamilton's children were
gone, and he was left alone.
“Why didn't I tell her, as I intended to?” thought
he. “Is it because I fear her,—fear my own child? No,
it cannot be,—and yet there is that in her eye which
sometimes makes me quail, and which, if necessary, would
keep at bay a dozen step-mothers. But neither she, nor
either one of them, has ought to dread from Mrs. Carter,
whose presence will, I think, be of great benefit to us all,
and whose gentle manners, I trust, will tend to soften
Mag!”
Meantime his children were discussing and wondering
at the strange mood of their father. Walter, however,
took no part in the conversation. He had lived longer
than his sisters,—had seen more of human nature, and
had his own suspicions with regard to what would take
place during their absence; but he could not spoil all
Margaret's happiness by telling her his thoughts, so he
kept them to himself, secretly resolving to make the best
-- 048 --
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of whatever might occur, and to advise Mag to do the
same.
Now for a time we leave them, and take a look into
the cottage of Widow Carter, where, one September morning,
about three weeks after the departure of the Hamiltons,
preparations were making for some great event. In
the kitchen a servant girl was busily at work, while in the
parlor Lenora was talking and the widow was listening.
“Oh, mother,” said Lenora, “isn't it so nice that they
went away just now? But won't Mag look daggers at
us, when she comes home and finds us in quiet possession,
and is told to call you mother!”
“I never expect her to do that,” answered Mrs. Carter.
“The most I can hope for is that she will call me Mrs.
Hamilton.”
“Now really, mother, if I were in Mag's place, I
wouldn't please you enough to say Mrs. Hamilton; I'd
always call you Mrs. Carter,” said Lenora.
“How absurd,” was the reply; and Lenora continued:
“I know it's absurd, but I'd do it; though if she does, I,
as the dutiful child of a most worthy parent, shall feel
compelled to resent the insult by calling her father Mr.
Carter!”
By this time Mrs. Carter was needed in the kitchen;
so, leaving Lenora, who at once was the pest and torment
of her mother's life, we will go into the village and see
what effect the approaching nuptials were producing. It
was now generally known that the “lady from the east”
who had been “rocked in Mrs. Carter's cradle,” was none
other than Mrs. Carter herself, and many were the reproving
looks which the people had cast toward Lenora
for the trick she had put upon them. The little hussy
only laughed at them good humoredly, telling them they
were angry because she had cheated them out of five
-- 049 --
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months' gossip, and that if her mother could have had her
way, she would have sent the news to the Herald and had
it inserted under the head of “Awful Catastrophe!”
Thus Mrs. Carter was exonerated from all blame; but
many a wise old lady shook her head, saying, “How
strange that so fine a woman as Mrs. Carter should have
such a reprobate of a daughter.”
When this remark came to Lenora's ears, she cut numerous
flourishes, which ended in the upsetting of a bowl
of starch on her mother's new black silk; then dancing
before the highly indignant lady, she said, “Perhaps if
they knew what a scapegrace you represent my father to
have been, and how you whipped me once to make me
say I saw him strike you, when I never did, they would
wonder at my being as good as I am.”
Mrs. Carter was too furious to venture a verbal reply;
so seizing the starch bowl, she hurled it with the remainder
of the contents at the head of the little vixen, who,
with an elastic bound, not entirely unlike a summerset,
dodged the missile, which passed on and fell upon the
hearth rug.
This is but one of a series of similar scenes, which occurred
between the widow and her child before the happy
day arrived, when, in the presence of a select few of the
villagers, Luella Carter was transformed into Luella Hamilton.
The ceremony was scarcely over, when Mr. Hamilton,
who for a few days had been rather indisposed,
complained of feeling sick. Immediately Lenora, with a
sidelong glance at her mother, exclaimed, “What, sick
of your bargain so quick? It's sooner, even, than I
thought 't would be, and I'm sure I'm capable of
judging.”
“Dear Lenora,” said Mrs. Carter, turning toward one
-- 050 --
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of her neighbors, “she has such a flow of spirits, that I
am afraid Mr. Hamilton will find her troublesome.
“Don't be alarmed, mother; he'll never think of me
when you are around,” was Lenora's reply, in which Mrs.
Carter saw more than one meaning.
That evening the bridal party repaired to the homestead,
where, at Mr. Hamilton's request, Mrs. Kirby was
waiting to receive them. Willie had been told by the
servants that his mother was coming home that night,
and, with the trusting faith of childhood, he had drawn a
chair to the window from which he could see his mother's
grave; and there for more than an hour he watched for
the first indications of her coming, saying, occasionally,
“Oh, I wish she'd come. Willie's so sorry here.”
At last growing weary and discouraged, he turned
away and said, “No ma 'll never come home again; Maggie
said she wouldn't.”
Upon the carriage road which wound from the street
to the house, there was the sound of coming wheels, and
Rachel, seizing Willie, bore him to the front door, exclaiming,
“An' faith, Willie, don't you see her? That's
your mother, honey, with the black gown.”
But Willie saw only the wild eyes of Lenora, who
caught him in her arms, overwhelming him with caresses.
“Let me go, Leno,” said he “I want to see my ma.
Where is she?”
A smile of scorn curled Lenora's lips, as she released
him, and leading him toward her mother, she said,
“There she is; there's your ma. Now hold up your
head and make a bow.”
Willie's lip quivered, his eyes filled with tears, and
hiding his face in his apron, he sobbed, “I want my own
ma,— the one they shut up in a big black box. Where
is she, Leno?
-- 051 --
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Mr. Hamilton took Willie on his knee, and tried to explain
to him, how that now his own mother was dead, he
had got a new one, who would love him and be kind to
him. Then putting him down, he said, “Go, my son, and
speak to her, won't you?”
Willie advanced rather cautiously toward the black
silk figure, which reached out its hand, saying, “Dear
Willie, you'll love me a little, won't you?”
“Yes, if you are good to me,” was the answer, which
made the new step-mother mentally exclaim, “A young
rebel, I know,” while Lenora, bending between the two,
whispered emphatically, “She shall be good to you!”
And soon, in due order, the servants were presented to
their new mistress. Some were disposed to like her,
others eyed her askance, and old Polly Pepper, the black
cook, who had been in the family ever since Mr. Hamilton's
first marriage, returned her salutation rather gruffly,
and then, stalking back to the kitchen, muttered to those
who followed her, “I don't like her face no how; she
looks just like the milk-snakes, when they stick their heads
in at the door.”
“But you knew how she looked before,” said Lucy, the
chambermaid.
“I know it,” returned Polly; “but when she was here
nussin', I never noticed her, more'n I would any on you;
for who'd of thought that Mr. Hamilton would marry
her, when he knows, or or'to know, that nusses ain't fust
cut, no how; and you may depend on't, things ain't a
goin' to be here as they used to be.”
Here Rachel started up, and related the circumstance of
Margaret's refusing to see “that little evil-eyed lookin'
varmint, with curls almost like Polly's.”
Lucy, too, suddenly remembered something which she
had seen, or heard, or made up, so that Mrs. Carter had
-- 052 --
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not been an hour in the coveted homestead ere there was
mutiny against her afloat in the kitchen; “But,” said
Aunt Polly, “I 'vises you all to be civil till she sasses you
fust!”
“My dear, what room can Lenora have for her own?”
asked Mrs, Hamilton, as we must now call her, the morning
following her marriage.
“Why, really, I don't know,” answered the husband;
“you must suit yourselves with regard to that.”
“Yes; but I'd rather you'd select, and then no one can
blame me,” was the answer.
“Choose any room you please, except the one which
Mag and Carrie now occupy, and rest assured you shall
not be blamed,” said Mr. Hamilton.
The night before, Lenora had appropriated to herself
the best chamber, but the room was so large and so far
distant from any one, and the windows and fireboard rattled
so, that she felt afraid, and did not care to repeat her
experiment.
“I 'clar for 't!” said Polly, when she heard of it,
“Gone right into the best bed, where even Miss Margaret
never goes! What are we all comin' to? Tell her,
Luce, the story of the ghosts, and I'll be bound she'll make
herself scarce in them rooms!”
“Tell her yourself,” said Lucy; and when, after breakfast,
Lenora, anxious to spy out everything, appeared in
the kitchen, Aunt Polly called out, “Did you hear anything
last night, Miss Lenora?”
“Why, yes—I heard the windows rattle,” was the answer;
and Aunt Polly, with an ominous shake of the
head, continued: “There's more than windows rattle, I
-- 053 --
[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]
guess. Didn't you see nothin', all white and corpse-like,
go a whizzin' and rappin' by your bed?”
“Why, no,” said Lenora; “what do you mean?”
So Polly told her of the ghosts and goblins which
nightly ranged the two chambers, over the front and back
parlors. Lenora said nothing, but she secretly resolved
not to venture again after dark into the haunted portion
of the house. But where should she sleep? That was
now the important question. Adjoining the sitting-room
was a pleasant, cozy little place, which Margaret called
her music-room. In it she kept her piano, her musicstand,
books, and several fine plants, besides numerous
other little conveniences. At the end of this room was a
large closet, where, at different seasons of the year, Mag
hung away the articles of clothing which she and her sister
did not need.
Toward this place Lenora turned her eyes; for, besides
being unusually pleasant, it was also very near her mother,
whose sleeping-room joined, though it did not communicate
with it. Accordingly, before noon the piano was removed
to the parlor; the plants were placed, some on
the piazza, and some in the sitting-room window, while
Margaret and Carrie's dresses were removed to the closet
of their room, which chanced to be a trifle too small to
hold them all conveniently; so they were crowded one
above the other, and left for “the girls to see to when
they came home!”
In perfect horror Aunt Polly looked on, regretting for
once the ghost story which she had told.
“Why don't you take the chamber jinin' the young ladies?
that ain't haunted,” said she, when they sent for
her to help move the piano. “Miss Margaret won't thank
you for scatterin' her things.”
-- 054 --
[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]
“You've nothing to do with Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
“you've only to attend to your own matters.”
“Wonder then what I'm up here for a h'istin' this pianner,”
muttered Polly. “This ain't my matters, sartin'.”
When Mr. Hamilton came in to dinner, he was shown
the little room with its single bed, tiny bureau, silken
lounge and easy chair, of which the last two were Mag's
especial property.
“All very nice,” said he, “but where is Mag's piano?”
“In the parlor,” answered his wife. “People often
ask for music, and it is more convenient to have it there,
than to come across the hall and through the sitting-room.”
Mr. Hamilton said nothing, but he secretly wished
Mag's rights had not been invaded quite so soon. His
wife must have guessed as much; for, laying her hand on
his, she, with the utmost deference, offered to undo all
she had done, if it did not please him.
“Certainly not — certainly not; it does please me,”
said he; while Polly, who stood on the cellar stairs listening,
exclaimed, “What a fool a woman can make of a
man!”
Three days after Mr. Hamilton's marriage, he received
a letter from Walter, saying that they would be at home
on the Thursday night following. Willie was in ecstasies,
for though, as yet, he liked his new mother tolerably well,
he still loved Maggie better; and the thought of seeing
her again made him wild with delight. All day long on
Thursday he sat in the doorway, listening for the shrill
cry of the train which was to bring her home.
“Don't you love Maggie?” said he to Lenora, who
chanced to pass him.
“Don't I love Maggie? No, I don't; neither does
she love me,” was the answer.
-- 055 --
[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]
Willie was puzzled to know why any one should not
like Mag; but his confidence in her was not at all shaken,
and when, soon after sunset, Lenora cried, “There,
they've come,” he rushed to the door, and was soon in
the arms of his sister-mother. Pressing his lips to hers,
he said, “Did you know I'd got a new mother? Mrs.
Carter and Leno — they are in there,” pointing toward
the parlor.
Instantly Mag dropped him. It was the first intimation
of her father's marriage which she had received, and
reeling backward, she would have fallen, had not Walter
supported her. Quickly rallying, she advanced toward
her father, who came to meet her, and whose hand trembled
in her grasp. After greeting each of his children,
he turned to present them to his wife, wisely taking Carrie
first. She was not prejudiced, like Mag, and returned
her step-mother's salutation with something like affection,
for which Lenora rewarded her by terming her a
“little simpleton.”
But Mag—she who had warned her father against that
woman — she who on her knees had begged him not to
marry her—she had no word of welcome, and when Mrs.
Hamilton offered her hand, she affected not to see it,
though, with the most frigid politeness, she said, “Good
evening, madam; this is, indeed, a surprise!”
“And not a very pleasant one, either, I imagine,” whispered
Lenora to Carrie.
Walter came last, and though he took the lady's hand,
there was something in his manner which plainly said,
she was not wanted there. Tea was now announced, and
Mag bit her lip when she saw her accustomed seat occupied
by another.
Feigning to recollect herself, Mrs. Hamilton, in the
-- 056 --
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
blandest tones, said, “Perhaps, dear Maggie, you would
prefer this seat?”
“Of course not,” said Mag; while Lenora thought to
herself, “And if she does, I wonder what good it will
do?”
That young lady, however, made no remarks, for Walter
Hamilton's searching eyes were upon her and kept
her silent. After tea, Walter said, “Come, Mag, I have
not heard your piano in a long time. Give us some
music.”
Mag arose to comply with his wishes, but ere she had
reached the door, Mrs. Hamilton, gently detained her,
saying, “Maggie, dear, Lenora, has always slept near me,
and as I knew you would not object, if you were here,
I took the liberty to remove your piano to the parlor, and
to fit this up for Lenora's sleeping room. See—” and she
threw open the door, disclosing the metamorphose, while
Willie, who began to get an inkling of matters, and who
always called the piazza “out doors,” chimed in, “And
they throw'd your little trees out doors, too!”
Mag stood for a moment, mute with astonishment;
then, thinking she could not “do the subject justice,”
she turned silently away. A roguish smile from Walter
met her eye, but she did not laugh, until, with Carrie,
she repaired to her own room, and tried to put something
in the closet. Then coming upon the pile of extra
clothes, she exclaimed, “What in the world! Here's all
our winter clothing, and, as I live, five dresses crammed
upon one nail! We'll have to move to the barn, next!”
This was too much, and sitting down, Mag cried and
laughed alternately.
-- 057 -- p598-062
CHAPTER VIII. DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD.
[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]
For a few weeks after Margaret's return, matters at
the homestead glided on smoothly enough, but at the end
of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real character.
Carrie's journey had not been as beneficial as her
father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder,
she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in
her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstanding
the numerous hints from her step-mother, that it was
no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down
stairs three times a day.
Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active,
and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt exceedingly
annoyed when any of her own family were ill.
She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad
feelings, and that she would be much better if she exerted
herself more. Accordingly, one afternoon when
Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie's room, giving vent
to her opinion as follows: “Carrie,” said she, (she now
dropped the dear, when Mr. Hamilton was not by,) “Carrie,
I shouldn't suppose you'd ever expect to get well, so
long as you stay moped up here all day. You ought to
come down stairs, and stir round more.”
“Oh, I should be so glad if I could,” answered Carrie.
“Could!” repeated Mrs. Hamilton; “you could if
you would. Now, it's my opinion that you complain altogether
too much, and fancy you are a great deal worse
than you really are, when all you want is exercise. A
short walk on the piazza, and a little fresh air, each morning,
would soon cure you.”
-- 058 --
[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]
“I know fresh air does me good,” said Carrie; “but
walking makes my side ache so hard, and makes me
cough so, that Maggie thinks I'd better not.”
Mag, quoted as authority, exasperated Mrs. Hamilton,
who replied, rather sharply, “Fudge on Mag's old-maidish
whims! I know that any one who eats as much as
you do, can't be so very weak!”
“I don't eat half you send me,” said poor Carrie, beginning
to cry at her mother's unkind remarks; “Willie
most always comes up here and eats with me.”
“For mercy's sake, mother, let the child have what she
wants to eat, for 'tisn't long she'll need it,” said Lenora,
suddenly appearing in the room.
“Lenora, go right down; you are not wanted here,”
said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Neither are you, I fancy,” was Lenora's reply, as she
coolly seated herself on the foot of Carrie's bed, while her
mother continued: “Really, Carrie, you must try and
come down to your meals, for you have no idea how
much it hinders the work, to bring them up here. Polly
isn't good for anything until she has conjured up something
extra for your breakfast, and then they break so
many dishes!”
“I'll try to come down to-morrow,” said Carrie, meekly;
and, as the door bell just then rang, Mrs. Hamilton
departed, leaving her with Lenora, whose first exclamation
was, “If I were in your place, Carrie, I wouldn't eat
anything, and die quick.”
“I don't want to die,” said Carrie; and Lenora, clapping
her hands together, replied, “Why, you poor little
innocent, who supposed you did? Nobody wants to die,
not even I, good as I am; but I should expect to, if I
had the consumption.”
“Lenora, have I got the consumption?” asked Carrie,
-- 059 --
[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]
fixing her eyes with mournful earnestness upon her companion,
who thoughtlessly replied: “To be sure you
have. They say one lung is entirely gone, and the other
nearly so.”
Wearily the sick girl turned upon her side; and, resting
her dimpled cheek upon her hand, she said, softly,
“Go away now, Lenora; I want to be alone.”
Lenora complied, and when Margaret returned from
the village, she found her sister lying in the same position
in which Lenora had left her, with her fair hair falling
over her face, which it hid from view.
“Are you asleep, Carrie?” said Mag; but Carrie made
no answer, and there was something so still and motionless
in her repose, that Mag went up to her, and pushing
back from her face the long silken hair, saw that she had
fainted.
The excitement of her step-mother's visit, added to the
startling news which Lenora had told her, were too much
for her weak nerves, and for a time she remained insensible.
At length, rousing herself, she looked dreamily
around, saying, “Was it a dream, Maggie—all a dream?”
“Was what a dream, love?” said Margaret, supporting
her sister's head upon her bosom.
Suddenly Carrie remembered the whole, but she resolved
not to tell of her step-mother's visit, though she
earnestly desired to know if what Lenora had told her were
true. Raising herself, so that she could see Margaret's
face, she said, “Maggie, is there no hope for me; and do
the physicians say I must die?”
“Why, what do you mean? I never knew that they
said so,” answered Mag; and then with breathless indignation
she listened, while Carrie told her what Lenora
had said. “I'll see that she doesn't get in here again,”
said Margaret. “I know she made more than half of
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
that up; for, though the physicians say your lungs are
very much diseased, they have never said that you could
not recover.”
The next morning, greatly to Mag's astonishment, Carrie
insisted upon going down to breakfast.
“Why, you must not do it; you are not able,” said
Mag. But Carrie was determined; and, wrapping herself
in her thick shawl, she slowly descended the stairs,
though the cold air in the long hall made her shiver.
“Carrie, dear, you are better this morning, and there
is quite a rosy flush on your cheek,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
rising to meet her. (Mr. Hamilton, be it remembered,
was present.) But Carrie shrank instinctively from her
step-mother's advances, and took her seat by the side of
her father.
After breakfast, Mag remembered that she had an errand
in the village, and Carrie, who felt too weary to return
immediately to her room, said she would wait below
until her sister returned. Mag had been gone but a
few moments, when Mrs. Hamilton, opening the outer
door, called to Lenora, saying, “Come and take a few
turns on the piazza with Carrie. The air is bracing this
morning, and will do her good.”
Willie, who was present, cried out, “No — Carrie is
sick; she can't walk—Maggie said she couldn't,” and he
grasped his sister's hand to hold her. With a not very
gentle jerk, Mrs. Hamilton pulled him off, while Lenora,
who came bobbing and bounding into the room, took
Carrie's arm, saying, “Oh yes, I'll walk with you; shall
we have a hop, skip, or jump?”
“Don't don't!” said Carrie, holding back; “I can't
walk fast, Lenora,” and actuated by some sudden impulse
of kindness, Lenora conformed her steps to those of the
invalid. Twice they walked up and down the piazza, and
-- 061 --
[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]
were about turning for the third time, when Carrie,
clasping her hand over her side, exclaimed, “No, no; I
can't go again.”
Little Willie, who fancied that his sister was being
hurt, sprang toward Lenora, saying, “Leno, you mustn't
hurt Carrie. Let her go; she's sick.”
And now to the scene of action came Dame Hamilton,
and seizing her young step-son, she tore him away from
Lenora, administering, at the same time, a bit of a motherly
shake. Willie's blood was up, and in return he dealt
her blow, for which she rewarded him by another shake,
and by tying him to the table.
That Lenora was not all bad, was shown by the unselfish
affection she ever manifested for Willie, although her
untimely interference between him and her mother oftentimes
made matters worse. Thus, on the occasion of
which we have been speaking, Mrs. Hamilton had scarcely
left the room ere Lenora released Willie from his confinement,
thereby giving him the impression that his mother
alone was to blame. Fortunately, however, Margaret's
judgment was better, and though she felt justly indignant
at the cruelty practiced upon poor Carrie, she could
not uphold Willie in striking his mother. Calling him to
her room, she talked to him until he was wholly softened,
and offered, of his own accord, to go and say he was sorry,
provided Maggie would accompany him as far as the door
of the sitting-room, where his mother would probably be
found. Accordingly, Mag descended the stairs with him,
and meeting Lenora in the hall, said, “Is she in the sitting-room?”
“Is she in the sitting room?” repeated Lenora, “and
pray who may she be?” then quick as thought she
added, “Oh, yes, I know. She is in there telling HE!”
Lenora was right in her conjecture, for Mrs. Hamilton,
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
greatly enraged at Willie's presumption in striking her,
and still more provoked at him for untying himself, as
she supposed he had, was laying before her husband
quite an aggravated case of assault and battery.
In the midst of her argument Willie entered the room,
with tear-stained eyes, and without noticing the presence
of his father, went directly to his mother, and burying
his face in her lap, sobbed out, “Willie is sorry he struck
you, and will never do so again, if you will forgive him.”
In a much gentler tone than she would have assumed had
not her husband been present, Mrs. Hamilton replied, “I
can forgive you for striking me, Willie, but what have you
to say about untying yourself?”
“I did n't do it,” said Willie, “Leno did that.”
“Be careful what you say,” returned Mrs. Hamilton.
“I can't believe Lenora would do so.”
Ere Willie had time to repeat his assertion, Lenora,
who all the time had been standing by the door, appeared,
saying, “you may believe him, for he has never been
whipped to make him lie. I did do it, and I would do it
again.”
“Lenora,” said Mr. Hamilton, rather sternly, “you
should not interfere in that manner. You will spoil the
child.”
It was the first time he had presumed to reprove his
step-daughter, and as there was nothing on earth which
Mrs. Hamilton so much feared as Lenora's tongue, she
dreaded the disclosures which farther remark from her
husband might call forth. So, assuming an air of great
distress, she said, “leave her to me, my dear. She is a
strange girl, as I always told you, and no one can manage
her as well as myself.” Then kissing Willie in token
of forgiveness, she left the room, drawing Lenora after
her and whispering fiercely in her ear, “how can you
-- 063 --
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ever expect to succeed with the son, if you show off this
way before the father.”
With a mocking laugh, Lenora replied, “Pshaw! I
gave that up the first time I ever saw him, for of course
he thinks me a second edition of Mrs. Carter, minus any
improvements. But, he's mistaken; I'm not half as bad
as I seem. I'm only what you've made me.”
Mrs. Hamilton turned away, thinking that if her daughter
could so easily give up Walter Hamilton, she would
not. She was resolved upon an alliance between him and
Lenora. And who ever knew her to fail in what she
undertook!
She had wrung from her husband the confession, that
“he believed there was a sort of childish affection between
Walter and Kate Kirby, though 'twas doubtful
whether it ever amounted to anything.” She had also
learned that he was rather averse to the match, and
though Lenora had not yet been named as a substitute
for Kate, she strove, in many ways, to impress her husband
with a sense of her daughter's superior abilities, at
the same time taking pains to mortify Margaret by setting
Lenora above her.
For this, however, Margaret cared but little, and it
was only when her mother ill-treated Willie, which she
frequently did, that her spirit was fully roused.
At Mrs. Hamilton's first marriage she had been presented
with a handsome glass pitcher, which she of course
greatly prized. One day it stood upon the stand in her
room, where Willie was also playing with some spools,
which Lenora had found and arranged for him. Malta,
the pet kitten, was amusing herself by running after the
spools, and when at last Willie, becoming tired, laid them
on the stand, she sprang toward them, upsetting the
pitcher, which was broken in a dozen pieces. On hearing
-- 064 --
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the crash, Mrs. Hamilton hastened toward the room,
where the sight of her favorite pitcher in fragments
greatly enraged her. Thinking, of course, that Willie had
done it, she rudely seized him by the arm, administered
a cuff or so, and then dragged him toward the china
closet.
As soon as Willie could regain his breath, he screamed,
“Oh, ma, don't shut me up; I'll be good; I didn't do it,
certain true; kittie knocked it off.”
“None of your lies,” said Mrs. Hamilton.” It's likely
kittie knocked it off!”
Lenora, who had seen the whole, and knew that what
Willie said was true, was about coming to the rescue,
when looking up, she saw Margaret, with dilated nostrils
and eyes flashing fire, watching the proceedings of her
step-mother.
“He's safe,” thought Lenora; “I'll let Mag fire the first
gun, and then I'll bring up the rear.”
Margaret had never known Willie to tell a lie, and had
no reason for thinking he had done so in this instance.
Besides, the blows her mother gave him exasperated her,
and she stepped forward, just as Mrs. Hamilton was about
pushing him into the closet. So engrossed was that lady
that she heard not Margaret's approach, until a firm hand
was laid upon her shoulder, while Willie was violently
wrested from her grasp, and ere she could recover from
her astonishment, she herself was pushed into the closet,
the door of which was closed and locked against her.
“Bravo, Margaret Hamilton,” cried Lenora, “I'm with
you now, if I never was before. It serves her right, for
Willie told the truth. I was sitting by and saw it all.
Keep her in there an hour, will you? It will pay her for
the many times she has shut me up for nothing.”
-- 065 --
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Mrs. Hamilton stamped and pushed against the door,
while Lenora danced and sung at the top of her voice,
“My dear precious mother got wrathy one day,
And seized little Will by the hair;
But when in the closet she'd stow him away,
She herself was pushed headlong in there.”
At length the bolt, yielding to the continued pressure
of Mrs. Hamilton's body, broke, and out came the termagant,
foaming with rage. She dared not molest Margaret,
of whose physical powers she had just received such mortifying
proof, so she aimed a box at the ears of Lenora.
But the lithe little thing dodged it, and with one bound
cleared the table which sat in the center of the room,
landing safely on the other side; and then, shaking her
short, black curls at her mother, she said, “You didn't
come it, that time, my darling.”
Mr. Hamilton, who chanced to be absent for a few
days, was, on his return, regaled with an exaggerated
account of the proceeding, his wife ending her discourse
by saying —“If you don't do something with your upstart
daughter, I'll leave the house; yes, I will.”
Mr. Hamilton was cowardly. He was afraid of his
wife, and he was afraid of Mag. So he tried to compromise
the matter, by promising the one that he surely
would see to it, and by asking the other if she were not
ashamed. But old Polly didn't let the matter pass so
easily. She was greatly shocked at having “such shameful
carryin's on in a decent man's house.”
“'Clare for't,” said she, “I'll give marster a piece of
Polly Pepper's mind the fust time I get a lick at him.”
In the course of a few days Mr. Hamilton had occasion
to go for something into Aunt Polly's dominions. The
old lady was ready for him. “Mr. Hampleton,” said she,
“I've been waitin' to see you this long spell.”
-- 066 --
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“To see me, Polly?” said he; “what do you want?”
“What I wants is this,” answered Polly, dropping into
a chair. “I want to know what this house is a comin' to,
with such bedivilment in it as there's been since madam
came here with that little black-headed, ugly-favored, illbegotten,
Satan-possessed, shoulder-unj'inted young-one
of her'n. It's been nothin' but a rowdedow the whole
time, and you hain't grit enough to stop it. Madam
boxes Willie, and undertakes to shet him up for a lie he
never told; Miss Margaret interferes jest as she or'to, takes
Willie away, and shets up madam; while that ill-marnered
Lenora jumps and screeches loud enough to wake the
dead. Madam busts the door down, and pitches into the
varmint, who jumps spang over a four foot table, which
Lord knows I never could have done in my spryest
days.”
“But how can I help all this?” asked Mr. Hamilton.
“Help it?” returned Polly, “You needn't have got
into the fire in the fust place. I hain't lived fifty odd
year for nothin', and though I hain't no larnin', I know
too much to heave myself away on the fust nussin' woman
that comes along.”
“Stop, Polly; you must not speak so of Mrs Hamilton,”
said Mr. Hamilton; while Polly continued: “And
I wouldn't nuther, if she could hold a candle to the t'other
one; but she can't. You'd no business to marry a second
time, even if you didn't marry a nuss; neither has any
man, who's got growd up gals, and a faithful critter like
Polly in the kitchen. Step-mothers don't often do well;
particularly them as is sot up by marryin'.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, who did not like to hear so much
truth, left the kitchen, while Aunt Polly said to herself,
“I've gin it to him good, this time.”
Lenora, who always happened to be near when she was
-- 067 --
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talked about, had overheard the whole, and repeated it to
her mother. Accordingly, that very afternoon word
came to the kitchen that Mrs. Hamilton wished to see
Polly.
“Reckon she'll find this child ain't afeard on her,” said
Polly, as she wiped the flour from her face and repaired
to Mrs. Hamilton's room.
“Polly,” began that lady, with a very grave face, “Lenora
tells me that you have been talking very disrespectfully
to Mr. Hamilton.”
“In the name of the Lord, can't he fight his own battles?”
interrupted Polly. “I only tried to show him
that he was henpecked, and he is.”
“It isn't of him alone I would speak,” resumed Mrs.
Hamilton, with stately gravity; “you spoke insultingly
of me, and as I make it a practice never to keep a servant
after they get insolent, I have —”
“For the dear Lord's sake,” again interrupted Polly,
“I 'spect we's the fust servants you ever had.”
“Good!” said a voice from some quarter, and Mrs.
Hamilton continued: “I have sent for you to give you
twenty-four hours' warning to leave this house.”
“I shan't budge an inch until marster says so,” said
Polly. “Wonder who's the best title deed here? Warn't
I here long afore you come a nussin' t'other one?”
And Polly went back to the kitchen, secretly fearing
that Mr. Hamilton, who she knew was wholly ruled by
his wife, would say that she must go. And he did say so,
though much against his will. Lenora ran with the decision
to Aunt Polly, causing her to drop a loaf of new
bread. But the old negress chased her from the cellar
with the oven broom, and then stealing by a back stair-case
to Margaret's room, laid the case before her, acknowledging
that she was sorry, and asking her young
-- 068 --
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mistress to intercede for her. Margaret stepped to the
head of the stairs, and calling to her father, requested
him to come for a moment to her room. This he was more
ready to do, as he had no suspicion why he was sent for,
but on seeing old Polly, he half resolved to turn back.
Margaret, however, led him into the room, and then entreated
him not to send away one who had served him so
long, and so faithfully.
Polly, too, joined in with her tears and prayers, saying,
“She was an old black fool any way, and let her tongue
get the better on her, though she didn't mean to say more
than was true, and reckoned she hadn't.”
In his heart Mr. Hamilton wished to revoke what he
had said, but dread of the explosive storm which he knew
would surely follow, made him irresolute, until Carrie
said, “Father, the first person of whom I have any definite
recollection is Aunt Polly, and I shall be so lonesome if
she goes away. For my sake let her stay, at least until I
am dead.”
This decided the matter. “She shall stay,” said Mr.
Hamilton, and Aunt Polly, highly elated, returned to the
kitchen with the news. Lenora, who seemed to be everywhere
at once, overheard it, and, bent on mischief, ran
with it to her mother. In the meantime, Mr. Hamilton
wished, yet dreaded, to go down, and finally, mentally
cursing himself for his weakness, asked Margaret to accompany
him. She was about to comply with his request,
when Mrs. Hamilton came up the stairs, furious at her
husband, whom she called “a craven coward, led by the
nose by all who chose to lead him.” Wishing to shut out
her noise, Mag closed and bolted the door, and in the
hall the modern Xantippe expended her wrath against
her husband and his offspring, while poor Mr. Hamilton
laid his face in Carrie's lap and wept. Margaret was
-- 069 --
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trying to devise some means by which to rid herself of her
step-mother, when Lenora was heard to exclaim, “shall I
pitch her over the stairs, Mag? I will if you say so.”
Immediately Mrs. Hamilton's anger took another channel,
and turning upon her daughter, she said, “What are
you here for, you prating parrot! Didn't you tell me
what Aunt Polly said, and haven't you acted in the capacity
of reporter ever since?”
“To be sure I did,” said Lenora, poising herself on one
foot, and whirling around in circles; “but if you thought
I did it because I blamed Aunt Polly, you are mistaken.”
“What did you do it for, then?” said Mrs. Hamilton;
and Lenora, giving the finishing touch to her circles by
dropping upon the floor, answered, “I like to live in a
hurricane — so I told you what I did. Now, if you think
it will add at all to the excitement of the present occasion,
I'll get an ax for you to split the door down.”
“Oh, don't, Lenora, “screamed Carrie, from within, to
which Lenora responded, “Poor little simple chick bird,
I wouldn't harm a hair of your soft head for anything.
But there is a man in there, or one who passes for a man,
that I think would look far more respectable if he'd come
out and face the tornado. She's easy to manage when
you know how. At least, Mag and I find her so.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, ashamed of himself and emboldened,
perhaps, by Lenora's words, slipped back the bolt of the
door, and walking out, confronted his wife.
“Shall I order pistols and coffee for two?” asked Lenora,
swinging herself entirely over the bannister, and
dropping like a squirrel on the stair below.
“Is Polly going to stay in this house?” asked Mrs.
Hamilton.
“She is,” was the reply.
“Then I leave to-night,” said Mrs. Hamilton.
-- 070 --
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“Very well, you can go,” returned the husband, growing
stronger in himself each moment.
Mrs. Hamilton turned away to her own room, where
she remained until supper time, when Lenora asked “if
she had got her chest packed, and where they should
direct their letters!” Neither Margaret nor her father
could refrain from laughter. Mrs. Hamilton, too, who
had no notion of leaving the comfortable homestead, and
who thought this as good a time to veer round as any
she would have, also joined in the laugh, saying, “What
a child you are, Lenora!”
Gradually the state of affairs at the homestead was
noised throughout the village, and numerous were the little
tea parties where none dared speak above a whisper,
to tell what they had heard, and where each and every
one were bound to the most profound secrecy, for fear
the reports might not be true. At length, however, the
story of the china closet got out, causing Sally Martin to
spend one whole day in retailing the gossip from door to
door. Many, too, suddenly remembered certain suspicious
things which they had seen in Mrs. Hamilton, who
was unanimously voted to be a bad woman, and who, of
course, began to be slighted.
The result of this was, to increase the sourness of her
disposition; and life at the homestead would have been
one continuous scene of turmoil, had not Margaret wisely
concluded to treat whatever her step-mother did with silent
contempt. Lenora, too, always seemed ready to fill
up all vacant niches, until even Mag acknowledged that
the mother would be unendurable without the daughter.
-- 071 -- p598-076
CHAPTER IX. LENORA AND CARRIE.
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
Ever since the day on which Lenora had startled Carrie
by informing her of her danger, she had been carefully
kept from the room, or allowed only to enter it when
Margaret was present. One afternoon, however, early in
February, Mag had occasion to go to the village. Lenora,
who saw her depart, hastily gathered up her work,
and repaired to Carrie's room, saying, as she entered it,
“Now, Carrie, we'll have a good time; Mag has gone to
see old deaf Peggy, who asks a thousand questions, and
will keep her at least two hours, and I am going to entertain
you to the best of my ability.”
Carrie's cheek flushed, for she felt some misgivings with
regard to the nature of Lenora's entertainment; but she
knew there was no help for it, so she tried to smile, and
said, “I am willing you should stay, Lenora, but you
must n't talk bad things to me, for I can't bear it.”
“Bad things!” repeated Lenora, “Who ever heard
me talk bad things? What do you mean?”
“I mean,” said Carrie, “that you must not talk about
your mother, as you sometimes do. It is wicked.”
“Why, you dear little thing,” answered Lenora, “don't
you know that what would be wicked for you, isn't wicked
for me?”
“No, I do not know so,” answered Carrie; “but I
know I wouldn't talk about my mother as you do about
yours, for anything.”
“Bless your heart,” said Lenora, “have n't you sense
enough to see that there is a great difference between
Mrs. Hamilton 1st, and Mrs. Hamilton 2d? Now, I'm
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
not naturally bad, and if I had been the daughter of Mrs.
Hamilton 1st, instead of Widow Carter's young-one, why,
I should have been as good as you;—no, not as good as
you, for you don't know enough to be bad,—but as good
as Mag, who, in my opinion, has the right kind of goodness,
for all I used to hate her so.”
“Hate Margaret!” said Carrie, opening her eyes to
their utmost extent. “What did you hate Margaret
for?”
“Because I didn't know her, I suppose,” returned Lenora;
“for now I like her well enough—not quite as well
as I do you, perhaps; and yet, when I see you bear
mother's abuse so meekly, I positively hate you for a minute,
and ache to box your ears; but when Mag squares
up to her, shuts her in the china closet, and all that, I
want to put my arms right round her neck.”
“Why, don't you like your mother?” asked Carrie;
and Lenora replied: “Of course I do; but I know what
she is, and I know she is n't what she sometimes seems.
Why, she'd be anything to suit the circumstances. She
wanted your father, and she assumed the character most
likely to secure him; for, between you and me, he is n't
very smart.”
“What did she marry him for, then?” asked Carrie.
“Marry him! I hope you don't for a moment suppose
she married him!”
“Why, Lenora, ain't they married? I thought they
were. Oh, dreadful!” and Carrie started to her feet,
while the perspiration stood thickly on her forehead.
Lenora screamed with delight, saying, “You certainly
have the softest brain I ever saw. Of course the minister
went through with the ceremony; but it was not your
father that mother wanted; it was his house—his money—
his horses—his servants, and his name. Now, may be,
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
in your simplicity, you have thought that mother came
here out of kindness to the motherless children; but I
tell you, she would be better satisfied if neither of you
had ever been born. I suppose it is wicked in me to say
so, but I think she makes me worse than I would otherwise
be; for I am not naturally so bad, and I like people
much better than I pretend to. Any way, I like you,
and love little Willie, and always have, since the first time
I saw him. Your mother lay in her coffin, and Willie
stood by her, caressing her cold cheek, and saying,
“Wake up, mamma, it's Willie; don't you know Willie?”
I took him in my arms, and vowed to love and shield him
from the coming evil; for I knew then, as well as I do
now, that what has happened would happen. Mag wasn't
there; she didn't see me. If he had, she might have
liked me better; now she thinks there is no good in
me; and if, when you die, I should feel like shedding
tears, and perhaps I shall, it would be just like her to
wonder `what business I had to cry — it was none of my
funeral!”'
“You do wrong to talk so, Lenora,” said Carrie;
“but tell me, did you never have any one to love except
Willie?”
“Yes,” said Lenora; “when I was a child, a little, innocent
child, I had a grandmother—my father's mother—
who taught me to pray, and told me of God.”
“Where is she now?” asked Carrie.
“In heaven,” was the answer. “I know she is there,
because when she died, there was the same look on her
face that there was on your mother's—the same that there
will be on yours, when you are dead.”
“Never mind,” gasped Carrie, who did not care to be
so frequently reminded of her mortality, while Lenora
continued: “Perhaps you don't know that my father was,
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
as mother says, a bad man; though I always loved him
dearly, and cried when he went away. We lived with
grandmother, and sometimes now, in my dreams, I am
a child again, kneeling by grandma's side, in our dear old
eastern home, where the sunshine fell so warmly, where
the summer birds sang in the old maple trees, and where
the long shadows, which I called spirits, came and went
over the bright green meadows. But there was a sadder
day; a narrow coffin, a black hearse, and a tolling bell,
which always wakes me from my sleep, and I find the
dream all gone, and nothing left of the little child but the
wicked Lenora Carter.”
Here the dark girl buried her face in her hands and
wept, while Carrie gently smoothed her tangled curls.
After a while, as if ashamed of her emotion, Lenora dried
her tears, and Carrie said, “Tell me more of your early
life. I like you when you act as you do now.”
“There is nothing more to tell but wickedness,” answered
Lenora. “Grandma died, and I had no one to
teach me what was right. About a year after her death,
mother wanted to get a divorce from father; and one
day she told me that a lawyer was coming to inquire
about my father's treatment of her. `Perhaps,' said she,
`he will ask if you ever saw him strike me, and you must
say that you have, a great many times.' `But I never
did,' said I; and then she insisted upon my telling that
falsehood, and I refused, until she whipped me, and made
me promise to say whatever she wished me to. In this
way I was trained to be what I am. Nobody loves me;
nobody ever can love me; and sometimes when Mag
speaks so kindly to you, and looks so affectionately upon
you, I think, what would I not give for some one to love
me; and then I go away to cry, and wish I had never
been born.”
-- 075 -- p598-080
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Here Mrs. Hamilton called to her daughter, and, gathering
up her work, Lenora left the room just as Margaret
entered it, on her return from the village.
CHAPTER X. DARKNESS.
As the spring opened and the days grew warmer, Carrie's
health seemed much improved; and, though she did
not leave her room, she was able to sit up nearly all day,
busying herself with some light work. Ever hopeful,
Margaret hugged to her bosom the delusion which whispered,
“she will not die,” while even the physician was
deceived, and spoke encouragingly of her recovery.
For several months Margaret had thought of visiting
her grandmother, who lived in Albany; and as Mr. Hamilton
had occasion to visit that city, Carrie urged her to
accompany him, saying she was perfectly able to be left
alone, and she wished her sister would go, for the trip
would do her good.
For some time past, Mrs. Hamilton had seemed exceedingly
amiable and affectionate, although her husband
appeared greatly depressed, and acted, as Lenora said,
“just as though he had been stealing sheep.”
“This depression Mag had tried in vain to fathom, and
at last fancying that a change of place and scene might
do him good, she consented to accompany him, on condition
that Kate Kirby would stay with Carrie. At the
mention of Kate's name, Mr. Hamilton's eyes instantly
went over to his wife, whose face wore the same calm,
-- 076 --
[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]
stony expression, as she answered, “Yes, Maggie, Kate
can come.”
Accordingly, on the morning when the travelers would
start, Kate came up to the homestead, receiving a thousand
and one directions about what to do and when to
do it, hearing not more than half the injunctions, and
promising to comply with every one. Long before the
door the carriage waited, while Margaret, lingering in
Carrie's room, kissed again and again her sister's pure
brow, and gazed into her deep blue eyes, as if she knew
that it was the last time. Even when halfway down the
stairs, she turned back again to say good-by, this time
whispering, “I have half a mind not to go, for something
tells me I shall never see you again.”
“Oh, Mag,” said Carrie, “don't be superstitious. I
am a great deal better, and when you come home, you
will find me in the parlor.”
In the lower hall Mr. Hamilton caressed his little Willie,
who begged that he, too, might go. “Don't leave me,
Maggie, don't,” said he, as Mag came up to say good-by.
Long years after the golden curls which Mag pushed
back from Willie's forehead were covered by the dark,
moist earth, did she remember her baby-brother's childish
farewell, and oft in bitterness of heart she asked,
“Why did I go—why leave my loved ones to die alone?”
Just a week after Mag's departure, news was received
at the homestead that Walter was coming to Glenwood
for a day or two, and on the afternoon of the same day,
Kate had occasion to go home. As she was leaving the
house, Mrs. Hamilton detained her, while she said, “Miss
Kirby, we are all greatly obliged to you for your kindness
in staying with Carrie, although your services really
are not needed. I understand how matters stand between
you and Walter, and as he is to be here to-morrow,
-- 077 --
[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]
you of course will feel some delicacy about remaining;
consequently, I release you from all obligations to do so.”
Of course there was no demurring to this. Kate's
pride was touched; and though Carrie wept, and begged
her not to go, she yielded only so far as to stay until the
next morning, when, with a promise to call frequently,
she left. Lonely and long seemed the hours to poor Carrie;
for, though Walter came, he staid but two days, and
spent a part of that time at the mill-pond cottage.
The evening after he went away, as Carrie lay, half
dozing, thinking of Mag, and counting the weary days
which must pass ere her return, she was startled by the
sound of Lenora's voice, in the room opposite, the door
of which was ajar. Lenora had been absent a few days,
and Carrie was about calling to her, when some words
spoken by her step-mother arrested her attention, and
roused her curiosity. They were, “You think too little
of yourself, Lenora. Now, I know there is nothing in
the way of your winning Walter, if you choose.”
“I should say there was everything in the way,” answered
Lenora. “In the first place, there is Kate Kirby;
and who, after seeing her handsome face, would ever look
at such a black, turned-up nose, bristle-headed thing as I
am. But I perceive there is some weighty secret on your
mind, so what is it? Have Walter and Kate quarreled,
or have you told him some falsehood about her?”
“Neither,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “What I have to say,
concerns your father.”
“My father!” interrupted Lenora; “my own father!
Oh, is he living?”
“No, I hope not,” was the answer; “it is Mr. hamilton
whom I mean.”
Instantly Lenora's tone changed, and she replied, “If
you please, you need not call that putty-headed man
-- 078 --
[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]
my father. He acts too much like a whipped spaniel to
suit me, and I really think Carrie ought to be respected
for knowing what little she does, while I wonder where
Walter, Mag, and Willie got their good sense. But what
is it? What have you made Mr. Hamilton do? something
ridiculous, of course.”
“I've made him make his will,” was the answer; while
Lenora continued: “Well, what then? What good will
that do me?”
“It may do you a great deal of good,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
“that is, if Walter likes the homestead as I think
he does. But I tell you, it was hard work, and I did n't
know, one while, but I should have to give it up. However,
I succeeded, and he has willed the homestead to
Walter, provided he marries you. If not, Walter has nothing,
and the homestead comes to me and my heirs forever!”
“Heartless old fool!” exclaimed Lenora, while Carrie,
too, groaned in sympathy. “And do you suppose he intends
to let it go so! Of course not; he'll make another
when you don't know it.”
“I'll watch him too closely for that,” said Mrs. Hamilton;
and after a moment Lenora asked, “what made
you so anxious for a will? Have you received warning
of his sudden demise!”
“How foolish,” said Mrs. Hamilton. “Isn't it the easiest
thing in the world for me to let Walter know what's
in the will, and I fancy that'll bring him to terms, for he
likes money, no mistake about that.”
“Mr. Hamilton is a bigger fool, and you a worse woman,
than I supposed,” said Lenora.” Do you think I
am mean enough to marry Walter under such circumstances?
Indeed, I'm not. But how is Carrie? I must
go and see her.”
-- 079 --
[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]
She was about leaving the room, when she turned back,
saying in a whisper, “mother, mother, her door is wide
open, as well as this one, and she must have heard every
word!”
“Oh, horror!” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton; “go in and
ascertain the fact, if possible.”
It took but one glance to convince Lenora that Carrie
was in possession of the secret. Her cheeks were flushed,
her eyes wet with tears; and when Lenora stooped to
kiss her, she said, “I know it all, I heard it all.”
“Then I hope you feel better,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
coming forward. “Listeners never hear any good of
themselves.”
“Particularly if it's Widow Carter who is listened to,”
suggested Lenora.
Mrs. Hamilton did not reply to this, but continued
speaking to Carrie. “If you have learned anything new,
you can keep it to yourself. No one has interfered with
you, or intends to. Your father has a right to do what
he chooses with his own, and I shall see that he exercises
that right, too.”
So saying, she left the room, while Carrie, again bursting
into tears, wept until perfectly exhausted. The next
morning she was attacked with bleeding at the lungs,
which, in a short time, reduced her so low that the physician
spoke doubtfully of her recovery, should the hemorrhage
again return. In the course of two or three
days she was again attacked; and now, when there was
no longer hope of life, her thoughts turned with earnest
longings toward her absent father and sister, and once,
as the physician was preparing to leave her, she said,
“Doctor, tell me truly, can I live twenty-four hours?”
“I think you may,” was the answer.
“Then I shall see them, for if you telegraph to-night,
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they can come in the morning train. Go yourself and
see it done, will you?”
The physician promised that he would, and then left
her room. In the hall he met Mrs. Hamilton, who, with
the utmost anxiety depicted upon her countenance, said,
“Dear Carrie is leaving us, is n't she? I have telegraphed
for her father, who will be here in the morning.
'Twas right to do so, was it not?”
“Quite right,” answered the physician. “I promised
to see to it myself, and was just going to do so.”
“Poor child,” returned Mrs. Hamilton, “she feels
anxious, I suppose. But I have saved you the trouble.”
The reader will not, perhaps, be greatly surprised to
learn that what Mrs. Hamilton had said was false. She
suspected that one reason why Carrie so greatly desired
to see her father, was to tell him what she had heard,
and beg of him to undo what he had done; and as she
feared the effect which the sight and words of his dying
child might have upon him, she resolved, if possible, to
keep him away until Carrie's voice was hushed in death.
Overhearing what had been said by the doctor, she resorted
to the stratagem of which we have just spoken.
The next morning, however, she ordered a telegram to
be dispatched, knowing, full well, that her husband could
not reach home until the day following.
Meantime, as the hour for the morning train drew
near, Carrie, resting upon pillows, and whiter than the
linen which covered them, strained her ears to catch the
first sound of the locomotive. At last, far off through
an opening among the hills, was heard a rumbling noise,
which increased each moment in loudness, until the puffing
engine shot out into the long, green valley, and then
rolled rapidly up to the depot.
Little Willie had seemed unwell for a few days, but
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since his sister's illness he had staid by her almost constantly,
gazing half curiously, half timidly into her face,
and asking if she were going to the home where his
mamma lived. She had told him that Margaret was
coming, and when the shrill whistle of the eastern train
sounded through the room, he ran to the window,
whither Lenora had preceded him, and there together
they watched for the coming of the omnibus. A sinister
smile curled the lips of Mrs. Hamilton, who was present,
and who, of course, affected to feel interested.
At last Willie, clapping his hands, exclaimed, “There
'tis! They're coming. That's Maggie's big trunk!”
Then, noticing the glow which his announcement called
up to Carrie's cheek, he said, “she 'll make you well,
Carrie, Maggie will. Oh, I'm so glad, and so is Leno.”
Nearer and nearer came the omnibus, brighter and
deeper grew the flush on Carrie's face, while little Willie
danced up and down with joy.
“It isn't coming here,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “it has
gone by,” and Carrie's feverish heat was succeeded by an
icy chill.
“Have n't they come, Lenora?” she said.
Lenora shook her head, and Willie, running to his sister,
wound his arms around her neck, and for several
minutes the two lone, motherless children wept.
“If Maggie knew how my head ached, she'd come,”
said Willie; but Carrie thought not of her aching head,
nor of the faintness of death which was fast coming on.
One idea alone engrossed her. Her brother;—how would
he be saved from the threatened evil, and her father's
name from dishonor?
At last, Mrs. Hamilton left the room, and Carrie,
speaking to Lenora and one of the villagers who was
present, asked if they, too, would not leave her alone for
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a time with Willie. They complied with her request,
and then asking her brother to bring her pencil and paper,
she hurriedly wrote a few lines to her father, telling
him of what she had heard, and entreating him, for her
sake, and the sake of the mother with whom she would
be when those words met his eye, not to do Walter so
great a wrong. “I shall give this to Willie's care,” she
wrote, in conclusion, “and he will keep it carefully until
you come. And now, I bid you a long farewell, my precious
father,—my noble Mag,—my darling Walter.”
The note was finished, and calling Willie to her, she
said, “I am going to die. When Maggie returns I shall
be dead and still, like our own dear mother.”
“Oh Carrie, Carrie,” sobbed the child, “don't leave
me till Maggie comes.”
There was a footstep on the stairs, and Carrie, without
replying to her brother, said quickly, “Take this paper,
Willie, and give it to father when he comes; let no one
see it,—Lenora, mother, nor any one.”
Willie promised compliance, and had but just time to
conceal the note in his bosom ere Mrs. Hamilton entered
the room, accompanied by the physician, to whom she
loudly expressed her regrets that her husband had not
come, saying, that she had that morning telegraphed
again, although he could not now reach home until the
morrow.
“To-morrow I shall never see,” said Carrie, faintly.
And she spoke truly, too, for even then death was freezing
her life-blood with the touch of his icy hand. To the
last she seemed conscious of the tiny arms which so fondly
encircled her neck; and when the soul had drifted far
out on the dark channel of death, the childish words of
“Carrie, Carrie, speak once more,” roused her, and folding
her brother more closely to her bosom, she
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murmured, “Willie, darling Willie, our mother is waiting
for us both.”
Mrs. Hamilton, who stood near, now bent down, and
laying her hand on the pale, damp brow, said gently,
“Carrie, dear, have you no word of love for this
mother?”
There was a visible shudder, an attempt to speak, a low
moan, in which the word “Walter” seemed struggling
to be spoken; and then death, as if impatient of delay,
bore away the spirit, leaving only the form which in life
had been most beautiful. Softly Lenora closed over the
blue eyes the long, fringed lids, and pushed back from the
forehead the sunny tresses which clustered so thickly
around it; then, kissing the white lips and leaving on the
face of the dead traces of her tears, she lead Willie from
the room, soothing him in her arms until he fell asleep.
Elsewhere we have said that for a few days Willie had
not seemed well; but so absorbed were all in Carrie's
more alarming symptoms, that no one had heeded him,
although his cheeks were flushed with fever, and his head
was throbbing with pain. He was in the habit of sleeping
in his parents' room, and that night his loud breathings
and uneasy turnings disturbed and annoyed his mother,
who at last called out in harsh tones, “Willie, Willie, for
mercy's sake stop that horrid noise! I shall never get
asleep this way. I know there's no need of breathing like
that!”
“It chokes me so,” sobbed little Willie, “but I'll try.”
Then pressing his hands tightly over his mouth, he
tried the experiment of holding his breath as long as
possible. Hearing no sound from his mother, he thought
her asleep, but not venturing to breathe naturally until
assured of the fact, he whispered, “Ma, ma, are you
asleep?”
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“Asleep! no,—and never shall be, as I see! What
do you want?”
“Oh, I want to breathe,” said Willie.
“Well, breathe then; who hinders you?” was the reply;
and ere the offensive sound again greeted her ear,
Mrs. Hamilton was too far gone in slumber to be disturbed.
For two hours Willie lay awake, tossing from side to
side, scorched with fever and longing for water to quench
his burning thirst. By this time Mrs. Hamilton was
again awake; but to his earnest entreaties for water—
“just one little drop of water, ma,”—she answered,
“William Hamilton, if you don't be still, I'll move your
crib into the room where Carrie is, and leave you there
alone!”
Unlike many children, Willie had no fears of the cold,
white figure which lay so still and motionless upon the
parlor sofa. To him it was Carrie, his sister; and many
times that day, had he stolen in alone, and laying back
the thin muslin which shaded her face, he had looked
long upon her;—had laid his hand on her icy cheek,
wondering if she knew how cold she was, and if the way
which she had gone was so long and dark that he could
never find it. To him there was naught to fear in that
room of death, and to his mother's threat he answered,
eagerly, “Oh, ma, give me some water, just a little bit of
water, and you may carry me in there. I ain't afraid,
and my breathing wont wake Carrie up;” but before
he had finished speaking, his mother was again dozing.
“Won't anybody bring me some water,—Maggie,
Carrie,—Leno,—nobody?” murmured poor Willie, as
he wet his pillow with tears.
At last he could bear it no longer. He knew where
the water-bucket stood, and stepping from his bed, he
groped his way down the long stairs to the basement.
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The spring moon was low in the western horizon, and
shining through the curtained window, dimly lighted
up the room. The pail was soon reached, and then in his
eagerness to drink, he put his lips to the side. Lower,
lower, lower it came, until he discovered, alas! that the
pail was empty.
“What shall I do? what shall I do?” said he, as he
crouched upon the cold hearth-stone.
A new idea entered his mind. The well stood near the
outer door; and, quickly pushing back the bolt, he went
out, all flushed and feverish as he was, into the chill night
air. There was ice upon the curb-stone, but he did not
mind it, although his little toes, as they trod upon it,
looked red by the pale moonlight. Quickly a cup of the
coveted water was drained; then, with careful forethought,
he filled it again, and taking it back to his room, crept
shivering to bed. Nature was exhausted; and whether
he fainted or fell asleep is not known, for never again to
consciousness in this world awoke the little boy.
The morning sunlight came softly in at the window,
touching his golden curls with a still more golden hue.
Sadly over him Lenora bent, saying, “Willie, Willie!
wake up, Willie. Don't you know me?”
Greatly Mrs. Hamilton marveled whence came the cup
of water which stood there, as if reproaching her for her
cruelty. But the delirious words of the dreamer soon
told her all. “Maggie, Maggie,” he said, “rub my
feet; they feel like Carrie's face. The curb-stone was
cold, but the water was so good. Give me more, more;
mother won't care, for I got it myself, and tried not to
breathe, so she could sleep; — and Carrie, too, is dead—
dead.”
Lenora fiercely grasped her mother's arm, and said,
-- 086 --
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“How could you refuse him water, and sleep while he got
it himself?”
But Mrs. Hamilton needed not that her daughter
should accuse her. Willie had been her favorite, and the
tears which she dropped upon his pillow were genuine.
The physician who was called, pronounced his disease to
be scarlet fever, saying that its violence was greatly increased
by a severe cold which he had taken.
“You have killed him, mother; you have killed him!”
said Lenora.
Twenty-four hours had passed since, with straining ear,
Carrie had listened for the morning train, and again
down the valley floated the smoke of the engine, and
over the blue hills echoed the loud scream of the locomotive;
but no sound could awaken the fair young sleeper,
though Willie started, and throwing up his hands, one of
which, the right one, was firmly clenched, murmured,
“Maggie, Maggie.”
Ten minutes more, and Margaret was there, weeping
in agony over the inanimate form of her sister, and almost
shrieking as she saw Willie's wild eye, and heard
his incoherent words. Terrible to Mr. Hamilton was this
coming home. Like one who walks in sleep, he went
from room to room, kissing the burning brow of one
child, and then, while the hot breath was yet warm upon
his lips, pressing them to the cold face of the other.
All day Margaret sat by her dying brother, praying
that he might be spared until Walter came. Her prayer
was answered; for at nightfall Walter was with them.
Half an hour after his return, Willie died; but ere his
right hand dropped lifeless by his side, he held it up to
view, saying, “Father,—give it to nobody but father.”
After a moment, Margaret, taking within hers the fast
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stiffening hand, gently unclosed the fingers, and found
the crumpled piece of paper on which Carrie had written
to her father.
CHAPTER XI. MARGARET AND HER FATHER.
'Twas midnight — midnight after the burial. In the
library of the old homestead sat its owner, his arms resting
upon the table, and his face reclining upon his arms.
Sadly was he reviewing the dreary past, since first among
them death had been, bearing away his wife, the wife of
his first, only love. Now, by her grave there was another,
on which the pale moonbeams and the chill nightdews
were falling, but they could not disturb the rest of
the two, who, side by side, in the same coffin lay sleeping,
and for whom the father's tears were falling fast, and the
father's heart was bleeding.
“Desolate, desolate—all is desolate,” said the stricken
man. “Would that I, too, were asleep with my lost
ones!”
There was a rustling sound near him, a footfall, and an
arm was thrown lovingly around his neck. Margaret's
tears were on his cheek, and Margaret's voice whispered
in his ear, “Dear father, we must love each other better,
now.”
Margaret had not retired, and on passing through
the hall, had discovered the light gleaming through the
crevice of the library door. Knowing that her father
must be there, she had come in to comfort him. Long
the father and child wept together, and then Margaret,
-- 088 --
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drying her tears, said, “It is right — all right; mother
has two, and you have two; and though the dead will
never return to us, we, in God's good time, will return to
them?”
“Yes, soon, very soon, shall I go,” said Mr. Hamilton.
“I am weary, weary, Margaret; my life is one scene of
bitterness. Oh, why, why was I left to do it?”
Margaret knew well to what he referred, but she made
no answer; and after he had become somewhat composed,
thinking this a good opportunity for broaching the subject
which had so troubled Carrie's dying moments, she
drew from her bosom the soiled piece of paper, and placing
it in his hands, watched him while he read. The
moan of anguish which came from his lips as he finished,
made her repent of her act, and, springing to his side, she
exclaimed, “Forgive me, father; I ought not to have
done it now. You have enough to bear.”
“It is right, my child,” said Mr. Hamilton; “for after
the wound had slightly healed, I might have wavered.
Not that I love Walter less; but, fool that I am, I
fear her who has made me the cowardly wretch you
see!”
“Rouse yourself, then,” answered Margaret. “Shake
off her chain, and be free.”
“I cannot, I cannot,” said he. “But this I will do. I
will make another will. I always intended to do so, and
Walter shall not be wronged.” Then rising, he hurriedly
paced the room, saying, “Walter shall not be wronged;
no, no—Walter shall not be wronged.”
After a time he resumed his former seat, and taking his
daughter's hand in his, he told her of all he had suffered,
of the power which his wife held over him, and which he
was too weak to shake off. This last he did not say, but
Margaret knew it, and it prevented her from giving him
-- 089 --
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other consolation than that of assuring him of her own
unchanged, undying love.
The morning twilight was streaming through the closed
shutters ere the conference ended; and then Mr. Hamilton,
kissing his daughter, dismissed her from the room;
but as she was leaving him, he called her back, saying,
“Don't tell Walter; he would despise me; but he shan't
be wronged—no, he shan't be wronged.”
Six weeks from that night, Margaret stood, with her
brother, watching her father as the light from his eyes
went out, and the tones of his voice ceased forever.
Grief for the loss of his children, and remorse for the
blight which he had brought upon his household, had undermined
his constitution, never strong; and when a prevailing
fever settled upon him, it found an easy prey. In
ten days' time, Margaret and Walter alone were left of
the happy band, who, two years before, had gathered
around the fireside of the old homestead.
Loudly Mrs. Hamilton deplored her loss, shutting herself
up in her room, and refusing to see any one, saying
that she could not be comforted, and it was of no use trying!
Lenora, however, managed to find an opportunity
of whispering to her that it would hardly be advisable to
commit suicide, since she had got the homestead left,
and everything else for which she had married Mr. Hamilton.
“Lenora, how can you thus trifle with my feelings?
“Don't you see that my trouble is killing me?” said the
greatly distressed lady.
“I don't apprehend any such catastrophe as that,” answered
Lenora. “You found the weeds of Widow Carter
easy enough to wear, and those of Widow Hamilton
won't hurt you any worse, I imagine.”
“Lenora,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton, “may you never
-- 090 --
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know what it is to be the unhappy mother of such a
child!”
“Amen!” was Lenora's fervent response, as she glided
from the room.
For three days the body of Mr. Hamilton lay upon the
marble center-table in the darkened parlor. Up and
down the long stair-cases, and through the silent rooms,
the servants moved noiselessly. Down in the basement
Aunt Polly forgot her wonted skill in cooking, and in a
broken rocking-chair swayed to and fro, brushing the big
tears from her dusky face, and lamenting the loss of one
who seemed to her “just like a brother, only a little nigher.”
In the chamber above, where, six weeks before, Carrie
had died, sat Margaret,— not weeping; she could not do
that; — her grief was too great, and the fountain of her
tears seemed scorched and dried; but, with white, compressed
lips, and hands tightly clasped, she thought of
the past and of the cheerless future. Occasionally through
the doorway there came a small, dark figure; a pair of
slender arms were thrown around her neck, and a voice
murmured in her ear, “Poor, poor Maggie.” The next
moment the figure would be gone, and in the hall below
Lenora would be heard singing snatches of some song,
either to provoke her mother, or to make the astonished
servants believe that she was really heartless and hardened.
What Walter suffered could not be expressed. Hour
after hour, from the sun's rising till its going down, he
sat by his father's coffin, unmindful of the many who came
in to look at the dead, and then gazing pitifully upon the
face of the living, walked away, whispering mysteriously
of insanity. Near him Lenora dared not come, though
through the open door she watched him, and oftentimes
he met the glance of her wild, black eyes, fixed upon him
-- 091 --
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with a mournful interest; then, as if moved by some spirit
of evil, she would turn away, and seeking her mother's
room, would mock at that lady's grief, advising her not
to make too much of an effort.
At last there came a change. In the yard there was
the sound of many feet, and in the house the hum of many
voices, all low and subdued. Again in the village of Glenwood
was heard the sound of the tolling bell; again through
the garden and over the running water brook moved the
long procession to the grave-yard; and soon Ernest
Hamilton lay quietly sleeping by the side of his wife and
children.
For some time after the funeral, nothing was said concerning
the will, and Margaret had almost forgotten the
existence of one, when one day as she was passing the
library door, her mother appeared, and asked her to enter.
She did so, and found there her brother, whose face, besides
the marks of recent sorrow which it wore, now
seemed anxious and expectant.
“Maggie, dear,” said the oily-tongued woman, “I have
sent for you to hear read your beloved father's last will
and testament.”
A deep flush mounted to Margaret's face, as she repeated,
somewhat inquiringly, “Father's last will and
testament?”
“Yes, dear,” answered her mother, “his last will and
testament. He made it several weeks ago, even before
poor Carrie died; and as Walter is now the eldest and
only son, I think it quite proper that he should read it.”
So saying, she passed toward Walter a sealed package,
which he nervously opened, while Margaret, going to his
side, looked over his shoulder, as he read.
It is impossible to describe the look of mingled surprise,
anger, and mortification which Mrs. Hamilton's
-- 092 --
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
face assumed, as she heard the will which her husband
had made four weeks before his death, and in which Walter
shared equally with his sister. Her first impulse was
to destroy it; and springing forward, she attempted to
snatch it from Walter's hand, but was prevented by Margaret,
who caught her arm and forcibly held her back.
Angrily confronting her step-daughter, Mrs. Hamilton
demanded, “What does this mean?” to which Mag replied,
“It means, madam, that for once you are foiled.
You coaxed my father into making a will, the thought of
which ought to make you blush. Carrie overheard you
telling Lenora, and when she found that she must die, she
wrote it on a piece of paper, and consigned it to Willie's
care!”
Several times Mrs. Hamilton essayed to speak, but the
words died away in her throat, until, at last, summoning
all her boldness, she said, in a hoarse whisper, “But the
homestead is mine — mine forever, and we'll see how delightful
I can make your home!”
“I'll save you that trouble, madam,” said Walter, rising
and advancing toward the door. “Neither my sister
nor myself will remain beneath the same roof which
shelters you. To-morrow we leave, knowing well that
vengeance belongeth to One higher than we.”
All the remainder of that day Walter and Margaret
spent in devising some plan for the future, deciding at last
that Margaret should, on the morrow, go for a time to
Mrs. Kirby's, while Walter returned to the city. The
next morning, however, Walter did not appear in the
breakfast parlor, and when Margaret, alarmed at his absence,
repaired to his room, she found him unable to rise.
The fever with which his father had died, and which was
still prevailing in the village, had fastened upon him, and
for many days was his life despaired of. The ablest
-- 093 --
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
physicians were called, but few of them gave any hope to the
pale, weeping sister, who, with untiring love, kept her
vigils by her brother's bedside.
When he was first taken ill, he had manifested great
uneasiness at his step-mother's presence, and when at last
he became delirious, he no longer concealed his feelings,
and if she entered the room, he would shriek, “Take her
away from me! Take her away! Chain her in the cellar; —
anywhere out of my sight.”
Again he would speak of Kate, and entreat that she
might come to him. “I have nothing left but her and
Margaret,” he would say; “and why does she stay away?”
Three different times had Margaret sent to her young
friend, urging her to come, and still she tarried, while
Margaret marveled greatly at the delay. She did not
know that the girl whom she had told to go, had received
different directions from Mrs. Hamilton, and that each
day beneath her mother's roof Kate Kirby wept and
prayed that Walter might not die.
One night he seemed to be dying, and gathered in the
room were many sympathizing friends and neighbors.
Without, 't was pitchy dark. The rain fell in torrents,
and the wind, which had increased in violence since the
setting of the sun, howled mournfully about the windows,
as if waiting to bear the soul company in its upward
flight. Many times had Walter attempted to speak. At
last he succeeded, and the word which fell from his lips,
was “Kate!”
Lenora, who had that day accidentally learned of her
mother's commands with regard to Miss Kirby, now
glided noiselessly from the room, and in a moment was
alone in the fearful storm, which she did not heed. Lightly
bounding over the swollen brook, she ran on until the
mill-pond cottage was reached. It was midnight, and its
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[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]
inmates were asleep, but they awoke at the sound of Lenora's
voice.
“Walter is dying,” said she to Kate, “and would see
you once more. Come quickly.”
Hastily dressing herself, Kate went forth with the
strange girl, who spoke not a word until Walter's room
was reached. Feebly the sick man wound his arms around
Kate's neck, exclaiming, “My own, my beautiful Kate,
I knew you would come. I am better now,— I shall live!”
and as if there was indeed something life-giving in her
very presence and the sound of her voice, Walter from
that hour grew better; and in three week's time he, together
with Margaret, left his childhood's home, once
so dear, but now darkened by the presence of her who
watched their departure with joy, exulting in the thought
that she was mistress of all she surveyed.
Walter, who was studying law in the city about twenty
miles distant, resolved to return thither immediately, and
after some consultation with his sister it was determined
that both she and Kate should accompany him. Accordingly,
a few mornings after they left the homestead, there
was a quiet bridal at the mill-pond cottage; after which,
Walter Hamilton bore away to his city home his sister
and his bride, the beautiful Kate.
CHAPTER XII. “CARRYING OUT DEAR MR. HAMILTON'S PLANS. ”
One morning about ten days after the departure of
Walter, the good people of Glenwood were greatly surprised
at the unusual confusion which seemed to pervade
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the homestead. The blinds were taken off, windows taken
out, carpets taken up, and where so lately physicians,
clergymen and death had officiated, were now seen carpenters,
masons and other workmen. Many were the
surmises as to the cause of all this; and one old lady, more
curious than the rest, determined upon a friendly call, to
ascertain, if possible, what was going on.
She found Mrs. Hamilton with her sleeves rolled up,
and her hair tucked under a black cap, consulting with a
carpenter about enlarging her bedroom and adding to it
a bathing room. Being received but coldly by the mistress
of the house, she descended to the basement, where
she was told by Aunt Polly that “the blinds were going
to be repainted, an addition built, the house turned wrong
side out, and Cain raised generally.”
“It's a burning shame,” said Aunt Polly, warmed up
by her subject and the hot oven into which she was thrusting
loaves of bread and pies. “It's a burning shame,—a
tearin' down and a goin' on this way, and marster not
cold in his grave. Miss Lenora, with all her badness, says
it's disgraceful, but he might ha' know'd it. I did. I
know'd it the fust time she came here a nussin'. I don't
see what got into him to have her. Polly Pepper, without
any larnin', never would ha' done such a thing,” continued
she, as the door closed upon her visitor, who was
anxious to carry the gossip back to the village.
It was even as Aunt Polly had said. Mrs. Hamilton, who
possessed a strong propensity for pulling down and building
up, and who would have made an excellent carpenter,
had long had an earnest desire for improving the homestead;
and now that there was no one to prevent her, she
went to work with a right good will, saying to Lenora,
who remonstrated with her upon the impropriety of her
conduct, that “she was merely carrying out dear Mr.
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Hamilton's plans,” who had proposed making these changes
before his death.
“Dear Mr. Hamilton!” repeated Lenora, “very dear
has he become to you, all at once. I think if you had always
manifested a little more affection for him and his,
they might not have been where they now are.”
“Seems to me you take a different text from what you
did some months ago,” said Mrs. Hamilton; “but perhaps
you don't remember the time?”
“I remember it well,” answered Lenora, “and quite
likely, with your training, I should do the same again.
We were poor, and I wished for a more elegant home. I
fancied that Margaret Hamilton was proud and had slighted
me, and I longed for revenge; but when I knew her,
I liked her better, and when I saw that she was not to be
trampled down by you or me, my hatred of her turned to
admiration. The silly man, who has paid the penalty of
his weakness, I always despised; but when I saw how fast
the gray hairs thickened on his head, and how care-worn
and bowed down he grew, I pitied him, for I knew that
his heart was breaking. Willie I truly, unselfishly loved;
and I am charitable enough to think that even you loved
him, but it was through your neglect that he died, and
for his death you will answer. Carrie was gentle and
trusting, but weak, like her father. I do not think you
killed her, for she was dying when we came here, but you
put the crowning act of wickedness to your life, when you
compelled a man, shattered in body and intellect, to write
a will which disinherited his only son; but on that point
you are baffled. To be sure, you've got the homestead,
and for decency's sake I think I'd wait awhile longer, ere
I commenced tearing down and building up.”
Lenora's words had no effect, whatever, upon her mother,
who still kept on with her plans, treating with silent
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contempt the remarks of the neighbors, or wishing, perhaps,
that they would attend to their own business, just as she
was attending to hers! Day after day the work went on.
Scaffoldings were raised—paper and plastering torn off—
boards were seasoning in the sun — shingles lying upon
the ground — ladders raised against the wall; and all this
while the two new graves showed not a single blade of
grass, and the earth upon them looked black and fresh as
it did when first it was placed there.
When, at last, the blinds were hung, the house cleaned,
and the carpets nailed down, Mrs. Hamilton, who had designed
doing it all the time, called together the servants,
whom she had always disliked on account of their preference
for Margaret, and told them to look for new places,
as their services were no longer needed there.
“You can make out your bills,” said she, at the same
time intimating that they hadn't one of them more than
earned their board, if indeed they had that! Polly Pepper
wasn't of a material to stand coolly by and hear such
language from one whom she considered far beneath her.
“Hadn't she as good a right there as anybody? Yes, indeed,
she had! Wasn't she there a full thirty year before
any of your low-lived trash came round a nussin?”
“Polly,” interposed Mrs. Hamilton, “leave the room,
instantly, you ungrateful thing'!”
“Ungrateful for what?” returned old Polly. “Haven't
I worked and slaved like an old nigger, as I am? and now
you call me ungrateful, and say I hain't half arnt my bread.
I'll sue you for slander, yes I will;” and the enraged Polly
left the room, muttering to herself, “half arnt my board!
Indeed! I'll bet I've made a hundred thousan' pies, to
say nothin' of the puddings. I not arn my board!”
When once again safe in what for so many years had
been her own peculiar province, she sat down to meditate.
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“I'd as good go without any fuss,” thought she, “but
my curse on the madam who sends me away!”
In the midst of her reverie, Lenora entered the kitchen,
and to her the old lady detailed her grievances, ending
with, “'Pears like she don't know nothin' at all about
etiquette, nor nothin' else.”
“Etiquette!” repeated Lenora. “You are mistaken,
Polly; mother would sit on a point of etiquette till she
wore the back breadth of her dress out. But it isn't that
which she lacks — it's decency. But, Polly,” said she,
changing the subject, “where do you intend to go, and
how?”
“To my brother Sam's,” said Polly. “He lives three
miles in the country, and I've sent Robin to the village for
a horse and wagon to carry my things.”
Here Mrs. Hamilton entered the kitchen, followed by a
strapping Irish girl, nearly six feet in height. Her hair,
flaming red, was twisted round a huge back comb; her
faded calico dress came far above her ancles; her brawny
arms were folded one over the other; and there was in
her appearance something altogether disagreeable and defiant.
Mrs. Hamilton introduced her as Ruth, her new
cook, saying she hoped she would know enough to keep
her place better than her predecessor had done.
Aunt Polly surveyed her rival from head to foot, and
then glancing aside to Lenora, muttered, “Low-lived, depend
on't.”
Robin now drove up with the wagon, and Mrs. Hamilton
and Lenora left the room, while Polly went to prepare
herself for her ride. Her sleeping apartment was in
the basement and communicated with the kitchen. This
was observed by the new cook, who had a strong dislike
of negroes, and who feared that she might be expected to
occupy the same bed.
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“An' faith,” said she, “is it where the like of ye have
burrowed that I am to turn in?”
“I don't understand no such low-flung stuff,” answered
Polly, “but if you mean are you to have this bedroom, I
suppose you are.”
Here Polly had occasion to go up stairs for something,
and on her return, she found that Ruth, during her absence,
had set fire to a large linen rag, which she held on
a shovel and was carrying about the bedroom, as if to
purify it from every atom of negro atmosphere which
might remain. Polly was quick-wittted, and instantly
comprehending the truth, she struck the shovel from the
hands of Ruth, exclaiming, “You spalpeen, is it because
my skin ain't a dingy yaller and all freckled like yourn?
Lord, look at your carrot-topped cocoanut, and then tell
me if wool ain't a heap the most genteel.”
In a moment a portion of the boasted wool was lying
on the floor, or being shaken from the thick, red fingers
of the cook, while Irish blood was flowing freely from
the nose, which Polly, in her vengeful wrath, had wrung.
Further hostilities were prevented by Robin, who screamed
that he couldn't wait any longer, and shaking her fist
fiercely at the red-head, Polly departed.
That day Lucy and Rachel also left, and their places
were supplied by two raw hands, one of whom, before the
close of the second day, tumbled up stairs with the large
soup tureen, breaking it in fragments and scalding the foot
of Mrs. Hamilton, who was in the rear, and who, having
waited an hour for dinner, had descended to the kitchen
to know why it was not forthcoming, saying that Polly
had never been so behind the time.
The other one, on being asked if she understood chamber
work, had replied, “Indade, and it's been my business
all my life.” She was accordingly sent to make the
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beds and empty the slop. Thinking it an easy way to dispose
of the latter, she had thrown it from the window,
deluging the head and shoulders of her mistress, who was
bending down to examine a rose-bush which had been recently
set out. Lenora was in ecstasies, and when at
noon her mother received a sprinkling of red-hot soup, she
gravely asked her “which she relished most, cold or warm
baths!”
CHAPTER XIII. RETRIBUTION.
Two years have passed away, and again we open the
scene at the homestead, which had not proved an altogether
pleasant home to Mrs. Hamilton. There was
around her everything to make her happy, but she was
far from being so. One by one her servants, with whom
she was very unpopular, had left her, until there now remained
but one. The villagers, too, shunned her, and she
was wholly dependent for society upon Lenora, who, as
usual, provoked and tormented her.
One day, Hester, the servant, came up from the basement,
saying there was a poor old man below, who asked
for money.
“Send him away; I've nothing for him,” said Mrs.
Hamilton, whose avaricious hand, larger far than her
heart, grasped at and retained everything.
“But, if you please, ma'am, he seems very poor,” said
Hester.
“Let him go to work, then. 'Twon't hurt him more
than 't will me,” was the reply.
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Lenora, whose eyes and ears were always open, no
sooner heard that there was a beggar in the kitchen, than
she ran down to see him. He was a miserable looking
object, and still there was something in his appearance
which denoted him to be above the common order of beggars.
His eyes were large and intensely black, and his
hair, short, thick, and curly, reminded Lenora of her own.
The moment she appeared, a peculiar expression passed
for a moment over his face, and he half started up; then
resuming his seat, he fixed his glittering eyes upon the
young lady, and seemed watching her closely.
At last she began questioning him, but his answers were
so unsatisfactory that she gave it up, and, thinking it the
easiest way to be rid of him, she took from her pocket a
shilling and handed it to him, saying, “It's all I can give
you, unless it is a dinner. Are you hungry?”
Hester, who had returned to the kitchen, was busy in
a distant part of the room, and she did not notice the
paleness which overspread Lenora's face, at the words
which the beggar uttered, when she presented the money
to him. She caught, however, the low murmur of their
voices, as they spoke together for a moment, and as Lenora
accompanied him to the door, she distinctly heard
the words, “In the garden.”
“And may be that's some of your kin; you look like
him,” said she to Lenora, after the stranger was gone.
“That's my business, not yours,” answered Lenora, as
she left the kitchen and repaired to her mother's room.
“Lenora, what ails you?” said Mrs Hamilton to her
daughter at the tea-table, that night, when, after putting
salt in one cup of ten, and upsetting a second, she commenced
spreading her biscuit with cheese instead of butter.
“What ails you? What are you thinking about?
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You don't seem to know any more what you are doing,
than the dead.”
Lenora made no direct reply to this, but soon after she
said, “Mother, how long has father been dead,—my own
father I mean?”
“Two or three years, I don't exactly know which,”
returned her mother, and Lenora continued: “How did
he look? I hardly remember him.”
“You have asked me that fifty times,” answered her
mother, “and fifty times I have told you that he looked
like you, only worse, if possible.”
“Let me see, where did you say he died?” said
Lenora.
“In New Orleans, with yellow fever, or black measles,
or small pox, or something,” Mrs. Hamilton replied; “but,
mercy's sake! can't you choose a better subject to talk
about? What made you think of him? He's been haunting
me all day, and I feel kind of nervous and want to
look over my shoulder whenever I am alone.”
Lenora made no further remark until after tea, when
she announced her intention of going to the village.
“Come back early, for I don't feel like staying alone,”
said her mother.
The sun had set when Lenora left the village, and by
the time she reached home, it was wholly dark. As she
entered the garden, the outline of a figure, sitting on a
bench at its farther extremity, made her stop for a moment,
but thinking to herself, “I expected it, and why
should I be afraid?” she walked on fearlessly, until the
person, roused by the sound of her footsteps, started up,
and turning toward her, said, half aloud, “Lenora, is it
you?”
Quickly she sprang forward, and soon one hand of the
beggar was clasped in hers, while the other rested upon
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her head, as he said, “Lenora, my child, my daughter,
you do not hate me?”
“Hate you, father?” she answered, “never, never.”
“But,” he continued, “has not she,—my,—no, not
my wife,—thank heaven not my wife now,—but your
mother, has not she taught you to despise and hate me?”
“No,” answered Lenora, bitterly. “She has taught me
enough of evil, but my memories of you were too sweet,
too pleasant, for me to despise you, though I do not think
you always did right, more than mother.”
The stranger groaned, and murmured, “It's true, all
true;” while Lenora continued: “But where have you
been all these years, and how came we to hear of your
death?”
“I have been in St. Louis most of the time, and the
report of my death resulted from the fact that a man bearing
my name, and who was also from Connecticut, died
of yellow fever in New Orleans about two years and a
half ago. A friend of mine, observing a notice of his
death, and supposing it to refer to me, forwarded the paper
to your mother, who, though then free from me, undoubtedly
felt glad, for she never loved me, but married
me because she thought I had money.”
“But how have you lived?” asked Lenora.
“Lived!” he repeated, “I have not lived. I have
merely existed. Gambling and drinking, drinking and
gambling, have been the business of my life, and have reduced
me to the miserable wretch whom you see.”
“Oh, father, father,” cried Lenora, “reform. It is not
too late, and you can yet be saved. Do it for my sake,
for, in spite of all your faults, I love you, and you are my
father.”
The first words of affection which had greeted his ear
for many long years made the wretched man weep, as
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he answered, “Lenora, I have sworn to reform, and I
will keep my vow. During one of my drunken revels in
St. Louis, a dream of home came over me, and when I
became sober, I started for Connecticut. There I heard
where and what your mother was. I had no wish ever
to meet her again, for though I greatly erred in my conduct
toward her, I think she was always the most to
blame. You I remembered with love, and I longed to
see you once more, to hear again the word `father,' and
know that I was not forgotten. I came as far as the city,
and there fell into temptation. For the last two months
I have been there, gambling and drinking, until I lost all
even the clothes which I wore, and was compelled to assume
these rags. I am now without home or money, and
have no place to lay my head.”
“I can give you money,” said Lenora. “Meet me
here to-morrow night, and you shall have all you want.
But what do you purpose doing? Where will you
stay?”
“In the village, for the sake of being near you,” said
he, at the same time bidding his daughter return to the
house, as the night air was damp and chilly.
Within a week from that time, a middle-aged man,
calling himself John Robinson, appeared in the village,
hiring himself out as a porter at one of the hotels. There
was a very striking resemblance between him and Lenora
Carter, which was noticed by the villagers, and mentioned
to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, could never
obtain a full view of the stranger's face, for without
any apparent design, he always avoided meeting her.
He had not been long in town, before it was whispered
about that between him and Lenora Carter a strange
intimacy existed, and rumors soon reached Mrs. Hamilton
that her daughter was in the habit of frequently
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stealing out, after sunset, to meet the ola porter, and that
once, when watched, she had been seen to put her arms
around his neck. Highly indignant, Mrs. Hamilton questioned
Lenora on the subject, and was astonished beyond
measure when she replied, “It is all true. I have met
Mr. Robinson often, and I have put my arms around his
neck, and shall probably do it again.”
“Oh, my child, my child,” groaned Mrs. Hamilton,
really distressed at her daughter's conduct. “How can
you do so? You will bring my gray hairs with sorrow
to the grave.”
“Not if you pull out as many of them as you now do,
and use Twiggs' Preparation besides,” said Lenora.
Mrs. Hamilton did not answer, but covering her face
with her hands, wept, really wept, thinking for the first
time, perhaps, that as she had sowed so was she reaping.
For some time past, her health had been failing, and as
the summer days grew warmer and more oppressive, she
felt a degree of lassitude and physical weakness which she
had never before experienced; and one day unable
longer to sit up, she took her bed, where she lay for many
days.
Now that her mother was really sick, Lenora seemed
suddenly changed, and with unwearied care watched over
her as kindly and faithfully as if no words, save those of
affection, had ever passed between them. Warmer and
more sultry grew the days, and more fiercely raged the
fever in Mrs. Hamilton's veins, until at last the crisis was
reached and passed, and she was in a fair way for recovery,
when she was attacked by chills, which again reduced
her to a state of helplessness. One day, about this
time, a ragged little boy, whose business seemed to be
lounging around the hotel, brought to Lenora a soiled
and crumpled note, on which was traced with an unsteady
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hand, “Dear Lenora, I am sick, all alone in the little attic;
come to me, quick; come.”
Lenora was in a state of great perplexity. Her mother,
when awake, needed all her care; and as she seldom slept
during the day, there seemed but little chance of getting
away. The night before, however, she had been unusually
restless and wakeful, and about noon she seemed
drowsy, and finally fell into a deep sleep.
“Now is my time,” thought Lenora; and calling Hester,
she bade her watch by her mother until she returned,
saying, “If she wakes, tell her I have gone to the village,
and will soon be back.”
Hester promised compliance, and was for a time faithful
to her trust; but suddenly recollecting something
which she wished to tell the girl who lived at the next
neighbor's, she stole away, leaving her mistress alone.
For five minutes Mrs. Hamilton slept on, and then with a
start awoke from a troubled dream, in which she had
seemed dying of thirst, while little Willie, standing by a
hogshead of water, refused her a drop. A part of her
dream was true, for she was suffering from the most intolerable
thirst, and called loudly for Lenora; but Lenora
was not there. Hester next was called, but she, too,
was gone. Then, seizing the bell which stood upon the
table, she rung it with all her force, and still there came
no one to her relief.
Again Willie stood by her, offering her a goblet overflowing
with water; but when she attempted to take it,
Willie changed into Lenora, who laughed mockingly at
her distress, telling her there was water in the well and
ice on the curb-stone. Once more the phantom faded
away, and the old porter was there, wading through a
limpid stream, and offering her to drink a cup of molten
lead.
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“Merciful heaven!” shrieked the sick woman, as she
writhed from side to side on her bed, which seemed
changed to burning coals; “will no one bring me water,
water, water!”
An interval of calmness succeeded, during which she
revolved in her mind the possibility of going herself to
the kitchen, where she knew the water-pail was standing.
No sooner had she decided upon this, than the room appeared
full of little demons, who laughed, and chattered,
and shouted in her ears, “Go—do it! Willie did, when
the night was dark and chilly; but now it is warm—nice
and warm—try it, do!”
Tremblingly Mrs. Hamilton stepped upon the floor,
and finding herself too weak to walk, crouched down,
and crept slowly down the stairs to the kitchen door,
where she stopped to rest. Across the room by the window
stood the pail, and as her eye fell upon it, the mirth
of the little winged demons appeared, in her disordered
fancy, to increase; and when the spot was reached, the
tumbler seized and thrust into the pail, they darted hither
and thither, shouting gleefully, “Lower, lower down;
just as Willie did. You'll find it; oh, you'll find it!”
With a bitter cry, Mrs. Hamilton dashed the tumbler
upon the floor, for the bucket was empty!
“Willie, Willie, you are avenged,” she said; but the
goblins answered, “Not yet; no, not yet.”
There was no pump in the well, and Mrs. Hamilton
knew she had not strength to raise the bucket by means
of the windlass. Her exertions had increased her thirst
tenfold, and now, for one cup of cooling water she would
have given all her possessions. Across the yard, at the
distance of twenty rods, there was a gushing spring, and
thither in her despair she determined to go. Accordingly,
she went forth into the fierce noontide blaze, and, with
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almost superhuman efforts, crawled to the place. But
what! was it a film upon her eyes? Had blindness come
upon her, or was the spring really dried up by the fervid
summer heat?
“Willie's avenged! Willie's avenged!” yelled the
imps, as the wretched woman fainted and fell backward
upon the bank, where she lay with her white, thin face
upturned, and blistering beneath the August sun!
Along the dusty highway came a handsome traveling
carriage, in which, besides the driver, were seated two
individuals, the one a young and elegantly dressed lady,
and the other a gentleman, who appeared to be on the
most intimate terms with his companion; for whenever
he would direct her attention to any passing object, he
laid his hand on hers, frequently retaining it, and calling
her “Maggie.”
The carriage was nearly opposite the homestead, when
the lady exclaimed, “Oh, Richard, I must stop at my old
home, once more. Only see how beautiful it is looking!”
In a moment the carriage was standing before the gate,
and the gentleman, who was Margaret Hamilton's husband—
a Mr. Elwyn, from the city — assisted his young
wife to alight, and then followed her to the house. No
answer was given to their loud ring, and as the doors and
windows were all open, Margaret proposed that they
should enter. They did so; and, going first into Mrs.
Hamilton's sick-room, the sight of the little table full of
vials, and the tumbled, empty bed, excited their wonder
and curiosity, and induced them to go on. At last, descending
to the kitchen, they saw the fragments of the
tumbler lying upon the floor.
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“Strange isn't it?” said Margaret to her husband, who
was standing in the outer door, and who had at that moment
discovered Mrs. Hamilton lying near the spring.
Instantly they were at her side, and Margaret involuntarily
shuddered as she recognized her step-mother, and
guessed why she was there. Taking her in his arms, Mr.
Elwyn bore her back to the house, and Margaret, filling
a pitcher with water, bathed her face, moistened her lips,
and applied other restoratives, until she revived enough
to say, “More water, Willie. Give me more water!”
Eagerly she drained the goblet which Margaret held to
her lips, and was about drinking the second, when her
eyes for the first time sought Margaret's face. With a
cry between a groan and a scream, she lay back upon her
pillows, saying, “Margaret Hamilton, how came you
here? What have you to do with me, and why do you
give me water? Didn't I refuse it to Willie, when he
begged so earnestly for it in the night time? But I 've
been paid—a thousand times paid—left by my own child
to die alone!”
Margaret was about asking for Lenora, when the young
lady herself appeared. She seemed for a moment greatly
surprised at the sight of Margaret, and then bounding to
her side, greeted her with much affection; while Mrs.
Hamilton jealously looked on, muttering to herself,
“Loves everybody better than she does me, her own
mother who has done so much for her.”
Lenora made no reply to this, although she manifested
much concern when Margaret told her in what state they
had found her mother.
“I went for a few moments to visit a sick friend,” said
she, “but told Hester to stay with mother until I returned;
and I wonder much that she should leave
her.”
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“Lenora,” said Mrs. Hamilton, “Lenora, was that sick
friend the old porter?”
Lenora answered in the affirmative; and then her
mother, turning to Margaret, said, “You don't know
what a pest and torment this child has always been to
me, and now when I am dying, she deserts me for a low-lived
fellow, old enough to be her father.”
Lenora's eyes flashed scornfully upon her mother, but
she made no answer, and as Mr. Elwyn was in haste to
proceed on his journey, Margaret arose to go. Lenora
urged them to remain longer, but they declined; and as
she accompanied them to the door, Margaret said, “Lenora,
if your mother should die, and it would afford you
any satisfaction to have me come, I will do so, for I suppose
you have no near friends.”
Lenora hesitated a moment, and then whispering to
Margaret of the relationship existing between herself and
the old porter, she said, “He is sick and poor, but he is
my own father, and I love him dearly.”
The tears came to Margaret's eyes, for she thought of
her own father, called home while his brown hair was
scarcely touched with the frosts of time. Wistfully Lenora
watched the carriage as it disappeared from sight,
and then half reluctantly entered the sick-room, where,
for the remainder of the afternoon, she endured her
mother's reproaches for having left her alone, and where
once, when her patience was wholly exhausted, she said,
“It served you right, for now you know how little Willie
felt.”
The next day Mrs. Hamilton was much worse, and Lenora,
who had watched and who understood her symptoms,
felt confident that she would die, and loudly her
conscience upbraided her for her undutiful conduct. She
longed, too, to tell her that her father was still living;
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and one evening, when, for an hour or two, her mother
seemed better, she arose, and bending over her pillow,
said, “Mother, did it ever occur to you that father might
not be dead?”
“Not be dead, Lenora! What do you mean?” asked
Mrs. Hamilton, starting up from her pillow.
Cautiously then Lenora commenced her story by referring
her mother back to the old beggar, who some
months before had been in the kitchen. Then she spoke
of the old porter, and the resemblance which was said to
exist between him and herself; and finally, as she saw her
mother could bear it, she told the whole story of her father's
life. Slowly the sick woman's eyes closed, and Lenora
saw that her eyelids were wet with tears, but as
she made no reply, Lenora, ere long, whispered, “Would
you like to see him, mother?”
“No, no; not now,” was the answer.
For a time there was silence, and then Lenora, again
speaking, said, “Mother, I have often been very wicked
and disrespectful to you, and if you should die, I should
feel much happier knowing that you forgave me. Will
you do it, mother, say?”
Mrs. Hamilton comprehended only the words, “if you
should die,” so she said, “Die, die! who says that I must
die? I shan't—I can't; for what could I tell her about
her children, and how could I live endless ages without
water. I tried it once, and I can't do it. No, I can't. I
won't!”
In this way she talked all night; and though in the
morning she was more rational, she turned away from the
clergyman, who at Lenora's request had been sent for,
saying, “It 's of no use, no use; I know all you would
say, but it 's too late, too late!”
Thus she continued for three days, and at the close of
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the third, it became evident to all that she was dying, and
Hester was immediately sent to the hotel, with a request
that the old porter would come quickly. Half an hour
after, Lenora bent over her mother's pillow, and whispered
in her ear, “Mother, can you hear me?”
A pressure of the hand was the reply, and Lenora
continued: “You have not said that you forgave me,
and now before you die, will you not tell me so?”
There was another pressure of the hand, and Lenora
again spoke: “Mother, would you like to see him—my
father? He is in the next room.”
This roused the dying woman, and starting up, she exclaimed,
“See John Carter! No, child, no. He'd only
curse me. Let him wait until I am dead, and then I shall
not hear it.”
In ten minutes more, Lenora was sadly gazing upon the
fixed, stony features of the dead. A gray-haired man was
at her side, and his lip quivered, as he placed his hand upon
the white, wrinkled brow of her who had once been his
wife. “She is fearfully changed,” were his only words,
as he turned away from the bed of death.
True to her promise, Margaret came to attend her step-mother's
funeral. Walter accompanied her, and shuddered
as he looked on the face of one who had so darkened
his home, and embittered his life. Kate was not
there, and when, after the burial, Lenora asked Margaret
for her, she was told of a little “Carrie Lenora,” who,
with pardonable pride, Walter thought was the only
baby of any consequence in the world. Margaret was
going on with a glowing description of the babe's many
beauties, when she was interrupted by Lenora who laid
her face in her lap and burst into tears.
“Why, Lenora, what is the matter?” asked Margaret.
As soon as Lenora became calm, she answered, “that
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name,
Maggie. You have given my name to Walter
Hamilton's child, and if you had hated me, you would
never have done it.”
“Hated you!” repeated Margaret, “we do not hate
you; now that we understand you, we like you very
much, and one of Kate's last injunctions to Walter was,
that he should again offer you a home with him.”
Once more Lenora was weeping. She had not shed a
tear when they carried from sight her mother, but words
of kindness touched her heart, and the fountain was
opened. At last, drying her eyes, she said, “I prefer to
go with father. Walter will, of course, come back to
the homestead, while father and I shall return to our old
home in Connecticut, where, by being kind to him, I
hope to atone, in a measure, for my great unkindness to
mother.”
CHAPTER XIV. FINALE.
Through the open casement of a small, white cottage
in the village of P—, the rays of the September moon
are stealing, disclosing to view a gray-haired man, whose
placid face still shows marks of long years of dissipation.
Affectionately he caresses the black, curly head, which is
resting on his knee, and softly he says, “Lenora, my
daughter, there are, I trust, years of happiness in store for
us both.”
“I hope it may be so,” was the answer, “but there is
no promise of many days to any save those who honor
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their father and mother. This last I have never done,
though many, many times have I repented of it, and I
begin to be assured that we may be happy yet.”
Away to the westward, over many miles of woodland,
valley, and hill, the same September moon shines upon
the white walls of the homestead, where sits the owner,
Walter Hamilton, gazing first upon his wife, and then
upon the tiny treasure which lies sleeping upon her lap.
“We are very happy, Katy darling,” he says, and the
affection which looks from her large, blue eyes, as she
lifts them to his face, is a sufficient answer.
Margaret, too, is there, and though but an hour ago her
tears were falling upon the grass grown graves, where
slept her father and mother, the gentle Carrie and golden-haired
Willie, they are all gone now, and she responds
to her brother's words, “Yes, Walter, we are
very happy.”
In the basement below the candle is burned to its
socket, and as the last ray flickers up, illuminating for a
moment the room, and then leaving it in darkness, Aunt
Polly Pepper starts from her evening nap, and as if continuing
her dream, mutters, “Yes, this is pleasant, and
something like living.”
And so with the moonlight and starlight falling upon
the old homestead, and the sunlight of love falling upon
the hearts of its inmates, we bid them adieu.
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Rice Corner.
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CHAPTER I. RICE CORNER.
Yes, Rice Corner! Do you think it a queer name?
Well, Rice Corner was a queer place, and deserved a
queer name. Now whether it is celebrated for anything
in particular, I really can't, at this moment, think, unless,
indeed, it is famed for having been my birth-place!
Whether this of itself is sufficient to immortalize a place,
future generations may, perhaps, tell, but I have some misgivings
whether the present will. This idea may be the
result of my having recently received sundry knocks over
the knuckles in the shape of criticisms.
But I know one thing,—on the bark of that old chestnut
tree which stands near Rice Corner school-house, my
name is cut higher than some of my more bulky cotemporary
quill—or rather steel—pen-wielders ever dared to
climb. To be sure, I tore my dress, scratched my face,
and committed numerous other little rompish miss-demeanors,
which procured for me a motherly scolding.
That, however, was of minor consideration, when compared
with having my name up—in the chestnut tree, at
least, if it couldn't be up in the world. But pardon my
egotism, and I will proceed with my story about Rice
Corner.
Does any one wish to know whereabouts on this rolling
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sphere Rice Corner is situated? I don't believe you can
find it on the map, unless your eyes are bluer and bigger
than mine, which last they can't very well be. But I can
tell you to a dot where Rice Corner should be. Just
take your atlas,—not the last one published, but Olney's,
that's the one I studied,—and right in one of those little
towns in Worcester county is Rice Corner, snugly nestled
among the gray rocks and blue hills of New England.
Yes, Rice Corner was a great place, and so you would
have thought could you have seen it in all its phases,
with its brown, red, green, yellow, and white houses, each
of which had the usual quantity of rose bushes, lilacs,
hollyhocks, and sunflowers. You should have seen my
home, my New England home, where once, not many
years ago, a happy group of children played. Alas! alas!
some of those who gave the sunlight to that spot, have
left us now forever, and on the bright shores of the eternal
river they wait and watch our coming. I do not expect
a stranger to love our old homestead as I loved it, for
in each heart is a fresh, green spot—the memory of its
own early home—where the sunshine was brighter, the
well waters cooler, and the song-bird's carol sweeter than
elsewhere they are found.
I trust I shall be forgiven, if, in this chapter, I pause
awhile to speak of my home,—aye, and of myself, too,
when, a light-hearted child, I bounded through the meadows
and orchards which lay around the old brown house
on my father's farm. 'Twas a large, square, two-storied
building, that old brown farm-house, containing rooms,
cupboards, and closets innumerable, and what was better
than all, a large, airy garret, where, on all rainy days,
and days when it looked as if it would rain, Bill, Joe,
Lizzie and I, assembled to hold our noisy revels. Never,
since the days of our great-grandmothers, did little
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spinning wheel buzz round faster than did the one which, in
the darkest corner of that garret, had been safely stowed
away, where they guessed “the young-ones would n't
find it.”
“Would n't find it!” I should like to know what
there was in that old garret that we did n't find, and appropriate,
too! Even the old oaken chest which contained
our grandmother's once fashionable attire, was not
sacred from the touch of our lawless hands. Into its
deep recesses we plunged, and brought out such curiosities,—
the queerest looking, high crowned, broad frilled
caps, narrow gored shirts, and what was funnier than all,
a strange looking thing which we thought must be a side-saddle,—
any way, it fitted Joe's rocking horse admirably,
although we wondered why so much whalebone was
necessary!
One day, in the midst of our gambols, in walked the
identical owner of the chest, and seeing the side-saddle,
she said, somewhat angrily, “Why, children, where upon
airth did you find my old stays?” We never wondered
again what made grandma's back keep its place so much
better than ours, and Bill had serious thoughts of trying
the effect of the stays upon himself.
In the rear of our house and sloping toward the setting
sun, was a long, winding lane, leading far down into
a wide-spreading tract of flowery woods, shady hillside,
and grassy pasture land, each in their turn highly suggestive
of brown nuts, delicious strawberries, and venomous
snakes. These last were generally more the creatures of
imagination than of reality, for in all my wanderings over
those fields, and they were many, I never but once trod
upon a green snake, and only once was I chased by a
white ringed black snake; so I think I am safe in saying
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that the snakes were not so numerous as were the nuts
and berries, which grew there in great profusion.
A little to the right of the woods, where, in winter,
Bill, Joe, Lizzie, and I dragged our sleds and boards for
the purpose of riding down hill, was a merry, frolicking
stream of water, over which, in times long gone, a saw-mill
had been erected; but owing to the inefficiency of its
former owner, or something else, the mill had fallen into
disuse, and gradually gone to decay. The water of the
brook, relieved from the necessity of turning the spluttering
wheel, now went gaily dancing down, down into
the depths of the dim old woods, and far away, I never
knew exactly where; but having heard rumors of a jumping
off place, I had a vague impression that at that spot
the waters of the mill-dam put up!
Near the saw mill, and partially hidden by the scraggy
pine trees and thick bushes which drooped over its entrance,
was a long, dark passage, leading underground;
not so large, probably, as Mammoth Cave, but in my estimation
rivaling it in interest. This was an old mine,
where, years before, men had dug for gold. Strange
stories were told of those who, with blazing torches,
and blazing noses, most likely, there toiled for the yellow
dust. The “Ancient Henry” himself, it was said, sometimes
left his affairs at home, and joined the nightly revels
in that mine, where cards and wine played a conspicuous
part. Be that as it may, the old mine was surrounded
by a halo of fear, which we youngsters never
cared to penetrate.
On a fine afternoon an older sister would occasionally
wander that way, together with a young M. D., whose
principal patient seemed to be at our house, for his little
black pony very frequently found shelter in our stable by
the side of “old sorrel.” From the north garret window
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I would watch them, wondering how they dared venture
so near the old mine, and wishing, mayhap, that the time
would come when I, with some daring doctor, would risk
everything. The time has come, but alas! instead of being
a doctor, he is only a lawyer, who never even saw
the old mine in Rice Corner.
Though I never ventured close to the old mine, there
was, not far from it, one pleasant spot where I loved
dearly to go. It was on the hillside, where, 'neath the
shadow of a gracefully twining grape-vine, lay a large,
flat rock. Thither would I often repair, and sit for hours
listening to the hum of the running water brook, or the
song of the summer birds, who, like me, seemed to love
that place. Often would I gaze far off at the distant,
misty horizon, wondering if I should ever know what
was beyond it. Wild fancies then filled my childish
brain. Strange voices whispered to me thoughts and
ideas, which, if written down and carried out, would, I
am sure, have placed my name higher than it was carved
on the old chestnut tree.
“But they came and went like shadows,
Those blessed dreams of youth.”
I was a strange child, I know. Everybody told me so,
and I knew it well enough without being told. The wise
old men of Rice Corner and their still wiser old wives,
looked at me askance, as 'neath the thorn-apple tree I
built my play-house and baked my little loaves of mud
bread. But when, forgetful of others, I talked aloud to
myriads of little folks, unseen 'tis true, but still real to
me, they shook their gray heads ominously, and whispering
to my mother said, “Mark our words, that girl will
one day be crazy. In ten years more she will be an inmate
of the mad-house!”
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And then I wondered what a mad-house was, and if
the people there all acted as our school teacher did when
Bill and the big girls said he was mad! The ten years
have passed, and I'm not in a mad-house yet, unless, indeed,
it is one of my own getting up!
One thing more about Rice Corner, and then, honor
bright, I'll finish the preface and go on with the story. I
must tell you about the old school-house, and the road
which led to it. This last wound around a long hill, and
was skirted on either side with tall trees, flowering dog-wood,
blackberry bushes, and frost grape-vines. Halfway
down the hill, and under one of the tallest walnut trees,
was a little hollow, where dwelt the goblin with which
nurses, housemaids, hired men, and older sisters were
wont to frighten refractory children into quietness. It
was the grave of an old negro. Alas! that to his last
resting place the curse should follow him! Had it been
a white person who rested there, not half so fearful would
have been the spot; now, however, it was “the old nigger
hole” — a place to run by, if by accident you were
caught out after dark — a place to be threatened with, if
you cried in the night and wanted the candle lighted—a
landmark where to stop, when going part way home with
the little girl who had been to visit you, and who, on
leaving you, ran no less swiftly than you yourself did,
half fearing that the dusky form in the hollow would rise
and try his skill at running. Verily, my heart has beat
faster at the thoughts of that dead negro, than it ever has
since at the sight of a hundred live specimens, “way down
south on the old plantation.”
The old school-house, too, had its advantages and its
disadvantages; of the latter, one was that there, both
summer and winter, but more especially during the last
mentioned season, all the rude boys in the place thought
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they had a perfect right to congregate and annoy the
girls in every possible way. But, never mind, not a few
wry faces we made at them, and not a few “blockheads”
we pinned to their backs! Oh! I've had rare times in
that old house, and have seen there rare sights, too, to
say nothing of the fights which occasionally occurred.
In these last, brother Joe generally took the lead of one
party, while Jim Brown commanded the other. Dire
was the confusion which reigned at such times. Books
were hurled from side to side. Then followed in quick
succession shovel, tongs, poker, water cup, water pail,
water and all; and to cap the climax, Jim Brown once
seized the large iron pan, which stood upon the stove, half
filled with hot water, and hurled it in the midst of the enemy.
Luckily nobody was killed, and but few wounded.
Years in their rapid flight have rolled away since then,
and he, my brother, is sleeping alone on the wild shore
of California.
For scarcely had the sad tones died,
Which echoed the farewell,
When o'er the western prairies
There came a funeral knell;
It said that he who went from us,
While yet upon his brow
The dew of youth was glistening,
Had passed to heaven now.
James Brown, too, is resting in the church-yard, near
his own home, and 'neath his own native sky.
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CHAPTER II. THE BELLE OF RICE CORNER.
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Yes, Rice Corner had a belle, but it was not I. Oh, no,
nobody ever mistook me for a belle, or much of anything
else, in fact; I was simply “Mary Jane,” or, if that was
not consise enough, “Crazy Jane,” set the matter all
right. The belle of which I speak was a bona fide one—
fine complexion, handsome features, beautiful eyes, curling
hair and all. And yet, in her composition there was
something wanting, something very essential, too; for
she lacked soul, and would at any time have sold her best
friend for a flattering compliment.
Still Carrie Howard was generally a favorite. The old
people liked her because her sparkling eye and merry
laugh brought back to them a gleam of youth; the young
people liked her, because to dislike her would seem like
envy; and I, who was nothing, liked her because she was
pretty, and I greatly admired beauty, though I am not
certain that I should not have liked a handsome rose-bud
quite as well as I did Carrie Howard's beautiful face, for
beautiful she was.
Her mother, good, plain Mrs. Howard, was entirely unlike
her daughter. She was simply “Mrs. Capt. Howard,”
or, in other words, “Aunt Eunice,” whose benevolent
smile and kindly beaming eye carried contentment
wherever she went. Really, I don't know how Rice Corner
could have existed one day without the presence of
Aunt Eunice. Was there a cut foot or hand in the neighborhood,
hers was the salve which healed it, almost as soon
as applied. Was there a pale, fretful baby, Aunt Eunice's
large bundle of catnip was sure to soothe it and did a sick
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person need watchers, Aunt Eunice was the one who,
three nights out of the seven, trod softly and quietly
about the sick-room, anticipating each want before you
yourself knew what it was, and smoothing your tumbled
pillow so gently that you almost felt it a luxury to be
sick, for the sake of being nursed by Aunt Eunice. The
very dogs and cats winked more composedly when she
appeared; and even the chickens learned her voice almost
as soon as they did the cluck of their “maternal
ancestor.”
But we must stop, or we shall make Aunt Eunice
out to be the belle, instead of Carrie, who, instead of
imitating her mother in her acts of kindness, sat all day
in the large old parlor, thumping away on a rickety piano,
or trying to transfer to broadcloth a poor little kittie,
whose face was sufficiently indicative of surprise at finding
its limbs so frightfully distorted.
When Carrie was fifteen years of age, her father, concluding
that she knew all which could possibly be learned
in the little brown house, where Joe and Jim once fought
so fiercely, sent her for three years to Albany. It was
currently reported that the uncle with whom she boarded,
received his pay in butter, cheese, potatoes, apples, and
other commodities, which were the product of Capt.
Howard's farm. Whether this was true or not, I am
not prepared to say, but I suppose it was, for it was
told by those who had no ostensible business, except to
attend to other people's affairs, and I am sure they ought
to have known all about it, and probably did.
I cannot help thinking that Captain Howard made a
mistake in sending Carrie away; for when at the end of
three years she had “finished her education,” and returned
home, she was not half so good a scholar as some
of those who had pored patiently over their books in the
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old brown house. Even I could beat her in spelling, for
soon after she came home the boys teased for a spelling-school.
I rather think they were quite as anxious for a
chance to go home with the girls as they were to have
their knowledge of Webster tested. Be that as it may,
Carrie was there, and was, of course, chosen first; but I,
“little crazy Jane,” spelled the whole school down! I
thought Carrie was not quite so handsome as she might
be, when with an angry frown she dropped into her seat,
hissed by a big, cross-eyed, red-haired boy, in the corner,
because she happened to spell pumpkin, “p-u-n pun k-i-n
kin, punkin.” I do not think she ever quite forgave me
for the pert, loud way in which I spelled the word correctly,
for she never gave me any more calicoes or silks,
and instead of calling me “Mollie,” as she had before
done, she now addressed me as “Miss Mary.”
Carrie possessed one accomplishment which the other
girls did not. She could play the piano most skillfully,
although as yet she had no instrument. Three weeks,
however, after her return, a rich man, who lived in the
village which was known as “Over the River,” failed, and
all his furniture was sold at auction. Many were the surmises
of my grandmother, on the morning of the sale, as
to what “Cap'n Howard could be going to buy at the
vandue and put in the big lumber wagon,” which he
drove past our house.
As the day drew to a close, I was posted at the window
to telegraph as soon as “Cap'n Howard's” white horses
appeared over the hill. They came at last, but the long
box in his wagon told no secret. Father, however, explained
all, by saying that he had bid off Mr. Talbott's
old piano for seventy dollars! Grandma shook her head
mournfully at the degeneracy of the age, while sister
Anna spoke sneeringly of Mr. Talbott's cracked piano.
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Next day, arrayed in my Sunday red merino and white
apron—a present from some cousin out west—I went to
see Carrie; and truly, the music she drew from that old
piano charmed me more than the finest performances since
have done. Carrie and her piano were now the theme of
every tongue, and many wondered how Captain Howard
could afford to pay for three years' music lessons; but this
was a mystery yet to be solved.
CHAPTER III. MONSIEUR PENOYER.
When Carrie had been at home about three months,
all Rice Corner one day flew to the doors and windows
to look at a stranger, a gentleman with fierce mustaches,
who seemed not at all certain of his latitude, and evidently
wanted to know where he was going. At least, if he
didn't, they who watched him did.
Grandma, whose longevity had not impaired her guessing
faculties, first suggested that “most likely it was Car'line
Howard's beau.” This was altogether too probable
to be doubted, and as grandmother had long contemplated
a visit to Aunt Eunice, she now determined to go
that very afternoon, as she “could judge for herself what
kind of a match Car'line had made.” Mother tried to
dissuade her from going that day, but the old lady was
incorrigible, and directly after dinner, dressed in her bombasin,
black silk apron, work bag, knitting and all, she departed
for Captain Howard's.
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They wouldn't confess it, but I knew well enough that
Juliet and Anna were impatient for her return, and when
the shadows of twilight began to fall, I was twice sent into
the road to see if she was coming. The last time I was
successful, and in a few moments grandmother was among
us; but whatever she knew she kept to herself until the
lamps were lighted in the sitting-room, and she, in her
stuffed rocking-chair, was toeing off the stocking only
that morning commenced. Then, at a hint from Anna,
she cast toward Lizzie and me a rueful glance, saying,
“There are too many pitchers here!” I knew then just
as well as I did five minutes after, that Lizzie and I must
go to bed. There was no help for it, and we complied
with a tolerably good grace. Lizzie proposed that we
should listen, but somehow I couldn't do that, and up to this
time I don't exactly know what grandmother told them.
The next day, however, I heard enough to know that
his name was Penoyer; that grandma did n't like him;
that he had as much hair on his face as on his head; that
Aunt Eunice would oppose the match, and that he would
stay over Sunday. With this last I was delighted, for I
should see him at church. I saw him before that, however;
for it was unaccountable what a fancy Carrie suddenly
took for traversing the woods and riding on horseback,
for which purpose grandfather's side-saddle (not
the one with which Joe saddled his pony!) was borrowed,
and then, with her long curls and blue riding skirt floating
in the wind, Carrie galloped over hills and through valleys,
accompanied by Penoyer, who was a fierce looking
fellow, with black eyes, black hair, black whiskers, and
black face.
I couldn't help fancying that the negro who lay beneath
the walnut tree, had resembled him, and I cried for fear
Carrie might marry so ugly a man, thinking it would not
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be altogether unlike, “Beauty and the Beast.” Sally, our
housemaid, said that “most likely he'd prove to be some
poor, mean scamp. Any way, seein' it was plantin' time,
he'd better be to hum tendin' to his own business, if he
had any.”
Sally was a shrewd, sharp-sighted girl, and already had
her preference in favor of Michael Welsh, father's hired
man. Walking, riding on horseback, and wasting time
generally, Sally held in great abhorrence. “All she
wished to say to Mike on week days, she could tell him
milking time.” On Sundays, however, it was different,
and regularly each Sunday night found Mike and Sally
snugly ensconced in the “great room,” while under the
windows occasionally might have been seen three or four
curly heads, eager to hear something about which to tease
Sally during the week.
But to return to Monsieur Penoyer, as Carrie called
him. His stay was prolonged beyond the Sabbath, and
on Tuesday I was sent to Capt. Howard's on an errand.
I found Aunt Eunice in the kitchen, her round, rosy face,
always suggestive of seed cake and plum pudding, flushed
with exertion, her sleeves tucked up and her arms buried
in a large wooden bowl of dough, which she said was going
to be made into loaves of 'lection cake, as Carrie was
to have a party to-morrow, and I had come just in time
to carry invitations to my sisters.
Carrie was in the parlor, and attracted by the sound of
music, I drew near the door, when Aunt Eunice kindly
bade me enter. I did so, and was presented to Monsieur Penoyer.
At first, I was shy of him, for I remembered that
Sally had said, “he don't know nothin',” and this in my estimation
was the worst crime of which he could be guilty.
Gradually, my timidity gave way, and when, at Carrie's
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request, he played and sang for me, I was perfectly delighted,
although I understood not a word he said.
When he finished, Carrie told him I was a little poet,
and then repeated some foolish lines I had once written
about her eyes. It was a very handsome set of teeth
which he showed, as he said, “Magnifique! Tres bien!
She be another grand Dr. Watts!”
I knew not who Dr. Watts was, but on one point my
mind was made up—Monsieur Penoyer knew a great deal!
Ere I left, Carrie commissioned me to invite my sisters to
her party on the morrow, and as I was leaving the room,
M. Penoyer said, “Ma chere Carrie, why vous no invite
la petite girl!”
Accordingly I was invited, with no earthly prospect,
however, of mother's letting me go. And she didn't
either; so next day, after Juliet and Anna were gone, I
went out behind the smoke-house and cried until I got
sleepy, and a headache too; then, wishing to make mother
think I had run away, I crept carefully up stairs to Bill's
room, where I slept until Sally's sharp eyes ferreted me
out, saying, “they were all scared to death about me, and
had looked for me high and low,” up in the garret and
down in the well, I supposed. Concluding they were
plagued enough, I condescended to go down stairs, and have
my head bathed in camphor and my feet parboiled in hot
water; then I went to bed and dreamed of white teeth,
curling mustaches and “Parlez vous Francais.”
Of what occurred at the party I will tell you as it was
told to me. All the elite of Rice Corner were there, of
course, and as each new arrival entered the parlor, M.
Penoyer eyed them coolly through an opera glass. Sister
Anna returned his inspection with the worst face she could
well make up, for which I half blamed her and half didn't,
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as I felt sure I should have done the same under like circumstances.
When all the invited guests had arrived, except myself,
(alas, no one asked why I tarried,) there ensued an awkward
silence, broken only by the parrot-like chatter of M.
Penoyer, who seemed determined to talk nothing but
French, although Carrie understood him but little better
than did the rest. At last he was posted up to the piano.
“Mon Dien, it be von horrid tone,” said he; then off
he dashed into a galloping waltz, keeping time with his
head, mouth, and eyes, which threatened to leave their
sockets and pounce upon the instrument. Rattlety-bang
went the piano—like lightning went Monsieur's fingers,
first here, then there, right or wrong, hit or miss, and oftener
miss than hit—now alighting among the keys promiscuously,
then with a tremendous thump making all
bound again, — and finishing up with a flourish, which
snapped two strings and made all the rest groan in sympathy,
as did the astonished listeners. For a time all was
still, and then a little modest girl, Lily Gordon, her face
blushing crimson, said, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,
but haven't you taught music!”
The veins in his forehead swelled, as, darting a wrathful
look at poor Lily, he exclaimed, “Le Diable! vat vous
take me for? Von dem musique teacher, eh?”
Poor Lily tried to stammer her apologies, while Carrie
sought to soothe the enraged Frenchman, by saying, that
“Miss Gordon was merely complimenting his skill in
music.”
At this point, the carriage which carried persons to
and from the depot drove up, and from it alighted a very
small, genteel looking lady, who rapped at the door and
asked, “if Capt. Howard lived there.”
In a moment Carrie was half stifling her with kisses,
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exclaiming, “Dear Agnes, this is a pleasant surprise. I did
not expect you so soon.”
The lady called Agnes, was introduced as Miss Hovey,
a school-mate of Carrie's. She seemed very much disposed
to make herself at home, for, throwing her hat in
one place and her shawl in another, she seated herself at
the piano, hastily running over a few notes; then with a
gesture of impatience, she said, “O, horrid! a few more
such sounds would give me the vapors for a month; why
don't you have it tuned?”
Ere Carrie could reply, Agnes' eyes lighted upon Penoyer,
who, either with or without design, had drawn
himself as closely into a corner as he well could. Springing
up, she brought her little hands together with energy,
exclaiming, “Now, heaven defend me, what fresh game
brought you here?” Then casting on Carrie an angry
glance, she said, in a low tone, “What does it mean?
Why didn't you tell me?”
Carrie drew nearer, and said coaxingly, “I didn't expect
you so soon; but, never mind, he leaves to-morrow.
For my sake treat him decently.”
The pressure which Agnes gave Carrie's hand seemed
to say, “For your sake, I will, but for no other.” Then
turning to Penoyer, who had risen to his feet, she said
respectfully, “I hardly expected to meet you here, sir.”
Her tone and manner had changed. Penoyer knew it,
and, with the coolest effrontery imaginable, he came forward,
bowing and scraping, and saying, “Comment vous
portez vous, Mademoiselle. Je suis perfaitement delighted
to see you,” at the same time offering her his hand.
All saw with what hauteur she declined it, but only one,
and that was Anna, heard her as she said, “Keep off, Penoyer;
don't make a donkey of yourself.” It was strange,
Anna said, “how far into his boots Penoyer tried to draw
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himself,” while at each fresh flash of Agnes' keen, black
eyes, he winced, either from fear or sympathy.
The restraint which had surrounded the little company
gave way beneath the lively sallies and sparkling wit of
Agnes, who, instead of seeming amazed at the country
girls, was apparently as much at ease as though she had
been entertaining a drawing room full of polished city
belles. When at last the party broke up, each and every
one was in love with the little Albany lady, although all
noticed that Carrie seemed troubled, watching Agnes narrowly;
and whenever she saw her tete-a-tete with either of
her companions, she would instantly draw near, and seem
greatly relieved on finding that Penoyer was not the subject
of conversation.
“I told you so,” was grandmother's reply, when informed
of all this. “I told you so. I knew Car'line
warn't goin' to make out no great.”
Juliet and Anna thought so too, but this did not prevent
them from running to the windows next morning to
see Penoyer as he passed on his way to the cars. I, who
with Lizzie was tugging away at a big board with which
we thought to make a “see-saw,” was honored with a
graceful wave of Monsieur's hands, and the words, “Au
revoir, ma chere Marie.”
That day Phoebe, Aunt Eunice's hired girl, came to
our house. Immediately Juliet and Anna assailed her
with a multitude of questions. The amount of knowledge
obtained was, that “Miss Hovey was a lady, and no mistake,
for she had sights of silks and jewelry, and she that
morning went with Phoebe to see her milk, although she
didn't dare venture inside the yard. “But,” added Phoebe,
“for all she was up so early she did not come out to
breakfast until that gentleman was gone.”
This was fresh proof that Penoyer was not “comme il
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faut,” and Anna expressed her determination to find out
all about him ere Agnes went home. I remembered “Dr.
Watts” and the invitation to the party, and secretly
hoped she would find out nothing bad.
CHAPTER IV. COUSIN EMMA.
Agnes had been in town about two weeks, when my
home was one morning thrown into a state of unusual excitement
by the arrival of a letter from Boston, containing
the intelligence that Cousin Emma Rushton, who had
been an invalid for more than a year, was about to try
the effect of country life and country air.
This piece of news operated differently upon different
members of our family. Juliet exclaimed, “Good, good;
Carrie Howard won't hold her head quite so high, now,
for we shall have a city lady, too.” Anna was delighted,
because she would thus have an opportunity of acquiring
city manners and city fashions. Sally said, snappishly,
“There's enough to wait on now, without having a stuckup
city flirt, faintin' at the sight of a worm, and screachin'
if a fly comes toward her.” Mother had some misgivings
on the subject. She was perfectly willing Emma should
come, but she doubted our ability to entertain her, knowing
that the change would be great from a fashionable
city home to a country farm-house. Grandmother, who
loved to talk of “my daughter in the city,” was pleased,
and to console mother, said, “Never you mind, Fanny;
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leave her to me; you find victuals and drink, and I 'll do
the entertaining.”
Among so many opinions it was hard for me to arrive
at a conclusion. On the whole, however, I was glad, until
told that during Cousin Emma's stay our garret gambols
must be given up, and that I must not laugh loud, or
scarcely speak above a whisper, for she was sick, and it
would hurt her head. Then I wished Cousin Emma and
Cousin Emma's head would stay where they belonged.
The letter was received on Monday, but Emma would
not come until Thursday; so there was ample time for
“fixing up.” The parlor-chamber was repapered, the
carpet taken up and shaken, red and white curtains hung
at the windows, a fresh ball of Castile soap bought for
the washstand, and on Thursday morning our pretty
flower beds were shorn of their finest ornaments, with
which to make bouquets for the parlor and parlor-chamber.
Besides that, Sally had filled the pantry with cakes,
pies, gingerbread, and Dutch cheese, to the last of which
I fancied Emma's city taste would not take kindly. Then
there was in the cellar a barrel of fresh beer; so everything
was done which could be expected.
When I went home for my dinner that day, I teased
hard to be allowed to stay out of school for one afternoon,
but mother said “No,” although she suffered me to wear
my pink gingham, with sundry injunctions “not to burst
the hooks and eyes all off before night.” This, by the way,
was my besetting sin; I never could climb a tree, no matter
what the size might be, without invariably coming
down minus at least six hooks and eyes; but I seriously
thought I should get over it when I got older and joined
the church.
That afternoon seemed of interminable length, but at
last I saw father's carriage coming, and quick as thought
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I threw my grammar out of the window; after which I
demurely asked “to go out and get a book which I had
dropped.” Permission was granted, and I was out just
in time to courtesy straight down, as father, pointing to
me, said, “There, that's our little crazy Mollie,” and then
I got a glimpse of a remarkably sweet face, which made
the tears come in my eyes, it was so pale.
Perhaps I wronged our school teacher; I think I did,
for she has since died; but really I fancied she kept us
longer that night on purpose. At least, it was nearly five
before we were dismissed. Then, with my bonnet in
hand, I ran for home, falling down once, and bursting off
the lower hook! I entered the house with a bound, but
was quieted by grandmother, who said Emma was lying
down, and I mustn't disturb her.
After waiting some time for her to make her appearance,
I stole softly up the stairs and looked in where she
was. She saw me, and instantly rising, said, with a smile
that went to my heart: “And this must be Mary, the little
crazy girl; come and kiss your Cousin Emma.”
Twining my arms around her neck, I think I must have
cried, for she repeatedly asked me what was the matter,
and as I could think of no better answer, I at last told her,
“I didn't like to have folks call me crazy. I couldn't help
acting like Sal Furbush, the old crazy woman, who threatened
to toss us up in the umbrella.”
“Forgive me, darling,” said Emma, coaxingly, “I will
not do it again;” then stooping down, she looked intently
into my eyes, soliloquizing, “Yes, it is wrong to tell her so.”
In a few moments I concluded Emma was the most beautiful
creature in the world; I would not even except Carrie
Howard. Emma's features were perfectly regular,
and her complexion white and pure as alabaster. Her
hair, which was a rich auburn, lay around her forehead in
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thick waves, but her great beauty consisted in her lustrous
blue eyes, which were very large and dark. When
she was pleased they laughed, and when she was sad
they were sad, too. Her dress was a white muslin
wrapper, confined at the waist by a light blue ribbon,
while one of the same hue encircled her neck, and was
fastened by a small gold pin, which, with the exception
of the costly diamond ring on her finger, was the only ornament
she wore.
When supper was ready, I proudly led her to the dining-room,
casting a look of triumph at Juliet and Anna,
and feeling, it may be, a trifle above grandmother, who
said, “Don't be troublesome, child.”
How grateful I was when Emma answered for me,
“She doesn't trouble me in the least; I am very fond of
children.”
Indeed, she seemed to be very fond of everybody and
everything — all except Sally's Dutch cheese, which, as I
expected, she hardly relished. In less than three days
she was beloved by all the household; Billy whispering to
me confidentially that “never before had he seen any one
except mother, whom he would like to marry.”
Saturday afternoon Carrie and Agnes called on Emma,
and as I saw them together I fancied I had never looked
on three more charming faces. They appeared mutually
pleased with each other, too, although for some reason
there seemed to be more affinity between Emma and Agnes.
Carrie appeared thoughtful and absent-minded,
which made Anna joke her about her “lover, Penoyer.”
As she was about leaving the room, she made no reply,
but after she was gone, Agnes looked searchingly at
Anna and said, “Is it possible, Miss Anna, that you are
so mistaken?”
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“How—why?” asked Anna. “Is Penoyer a bad man?
What is his occupation?”
“His occupation is well enough,” returned Agnes. “I
would not think less of him for that, were he right in
other respects. However, he was Carrie's and my own
music teacher.”
“Impossible,” said Anna, but at that moment Carrie
reëntered the room, and, together with Agnes, soon took
her leave.
“Penoyer a music teacher, after all his anger at Lily
Gordon, for suggesting such an idea!” This was now
the theme of Juliet and Anna, although they wondered
what there was so bad about him—something, evidently,
from Agnes' manner, and for many days they puzzled
their brains in vain to solve the mystery.
CHAPTER V. RICHARD EVELYN AND HARLEY ASHMORE.
Emma had not long been with us, ere her fame reached
the little village “over the river,” and drew from thence
many calls, both from gentlemen and ladies. Among
these was a Mr. Richard Evelyn and his sister, both of
whom had the honor of standing on the topmost round
of the aristocratic ladder in the village. Mr. Evelyn, who
was nearly thirty years of age, was a wealthy lawyer, and
what is a little remarkable for that craft, (I speak from
experience,) to an unusual degree of intelligence and polish
of manners, he added many social and religious qualities.
Many kind-hearted mothers, who had on their hands
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good-for-nothing daughters, wondered how he managed
to live without a wife, but he seemed to think it the easiest
thing in nature, for, since the death of his parents, his
sister Susan had acted in the capacity of his housekeeper.
I have an idea that grandmother, whose disposition
was slightly spiced with a love for match-making, bethought
herself how admirably Mr. Evelyn and Emma
were suited for each other; for, after his calls became frequent,
I heard her many times slily hint of the possibility
of our being able to keep Emma in town always. She,
probably, did not think so; for, each time after being
teased, she repaired to her room and read, for the twentieth
time, some ominous looking letters which she had
received since being with us.
It was now three weeks since she came, and each day
she had gained in health and strength. Twice had she
walked to the woods, accompanied by Mr. Evelyn, once
to the school-house, while every day she swung under the
old maple. About this time Agnes began to think of returning
home, so Juliet and Anna determined on a party
in honor of her and Emma. It was a bright summer afternoon;
and, for a wonder, I was suffered to remain
from school, although I received numerous charges to
keep my tongue still, and was again reminded of that excellent
old proverb, (the composition of some old maid, I
know,) “children should be seen and not heard;” so,
seated in a corner, my hand pressed closely over my
mouth, the better to guard against contingencies, I looked
on and thought, with ineffable satisfaction, how much
handsomer Cousin Emma was than any one else, although
I could not help acknowledging that Carrie never looked
more beautiful than she did that afternoon, in a neatly-fitting
white muslin, with a few rose-buds nestling in her
long, glossy curls.
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Matters were going on swimmingly, and I had three
times ventured a remark, when Anna, who was sitting
near the window, exclaimed, “Look here, girls, did you
ever see a finer looking gentleman?” at the same time
calling their attention to a stranger in the street. Emma
looked, too, and the bright flush which suffused her cheek
made me associate the gentleman with the letters she had
received, and I was not surprised when he entered our
yard and knocked at our door. Juliet arose to answer
his summons, but Emma prevented her, saying, “Suffer
me to go, will you?”
She was gone some time, and when she returned was
accompanied by the stranger, whom she introduced as
Mr. Ashmore. I surveyed him with childish curiosity,
and drew two very satisfactory breaths when I saw that
he was wholly unlike Monsieur Penoyer. He was a very
fine looking man, but I did not exactly like the expression
of his face. It was hardly open enough to suit me, and I
noticed that he never looked you directly in the eye. In
five minutes I had come to the conclusion that he was not
half so good a man as Mr. Evelyn. I was in great danger,
however, of changing my mind, when I saw how
fondly his dark eye rested on Emma, and how delighted
he seemed to be at her improved health; and when he,
without any apparent exertion, kept the whole company
entertained, I was charmed, and did not blame Emma for
liking him. Anna's doctor was nothing to him, and I
even fancied that he would dare to go all alone to the old
mine!
Suddenly he faced about, and espying me in the corner,
he said, “Here is a little lady I've not seen. Will some
one introduce me?”
With the utmost gravity, Anna said, “It is my sister,
little crazy Jane.”
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I glanced quickly at him to see how he would receive
the intelligence, and when, looking inquiringly first at me
and then at Emma, he said, “Is it really so? what a
pity!” the die was cast—I never liked him again. That
night in my little low bed, long after Lizzie was asleep, I
wept bitterly, wondering what made Anna so unkind, and
why people called me crazy. I knew I looked like other
children, and I thought I acted like them, too; unless,
indeed, I climbed more trees, tore more dresses, and burst
off more hooks.
But to return to the party. After a time I thought
that Mr. Ashmore's eyes went over admiringly to Carrie
more frequently than was necessary, and for once I regretted
that she was so pretty. Ere long, Mr. Ashmore,
too, went over, and immediately there ensued between
himself and Carrie a lively conversation, in which she
adroitly managed to let him know that she had been
three years at school in Albany. The next thing that I
saw was that he took from her curls a rose-bud and appropriated
it to his button hole. I glanced at Emma to
see how she was affected, but her face was perfectly calm,
and wore the old sweet smile. When the young ladies
were about leaving, I was greatly shocked to see Mr.
Ashmore offer to accompany Carrie and Agnes home.
After they were gone, grandmother said, “Emma, if
I's you, I'd put a stop to that chap's flirtin' so with Car'line
Howard.”
Emma laughed gaily, as she replied, “Oh, grandma, I
can trust Harley; I have been sick so long that he has
the privilege of walking or riding with anybody he
pleases.”
Grandmother shook her head, saying, “It was n't so
with her and our poor grandfather;” then I fell into a fit
of musing as to whether grandma was ever young, and if
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she ever fixed her hair before the glass, as Anna did when
she expected the doctor! In the midst of my reverie,
Mr. Ashmore returned, and for the remainder of the evening
devoted himself so entirely to Emma that I forgave
him for going home with Carrie. Next day, however,
he found the walk to Capt. Howard's a very convenient
one, staying a long time, too. The next day it was the
same, and the next, and the next, until I fancied that even
Emma began to be anxious.
Grandma was highly indignant, and Sally declared,
“that, as true as she lived and breathed, if Mike should
serve her so, he'd catch it.” About this time, Agnes
went home. The evening before she left, she spent at
our house with Emma, of whom she seemed to be very
fond. Carrie and Ashmore were, as usual, out riding or
walking, and the conversation naturally turned upon them.
At last, Anna, whose curiosity was still on the alert, to
know something of Penoyer, asked Agnes of him. I will
repeat, in substance, what Agnes said.
It seems that for many years Penoyer had been a teacher
of music in Albany. Agnes was one of his pupils, and
while teaching her music he thought proper to fall over-whelmingly
in love with her. This, for a time, she did
not notice; but when his attentions became so pointed as
to become a subject of remark, she very coolly tried to
make him understand his position. He persevered, however,
until he became exceedingly impudent and annoying.
About this time there came well authenticated stories
of his being not only a professed gambler, but also very
dissipated in his habits. To this last charge Agnes could
testify, as his breath had frequently betrayed him. He
was accordingly dismissed. Still he perseveringly pursued
her, always managing, if possible, to get near her in
all public places, and troubling her in various ways.
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At last Agnes heard that he was showing among her
acquaintances two notes bearing her signature. The contents
of these notes he covered with his hand, exposing to
view only her name. She had twice written, requesting
him to purchase some new piece of music, and it was these
messages which he was now showing, insinuating that
Agnes thought favorably of him, but was opposed by her
father. The consequence of this was, that the next time
Agnes' brother met Penoyer in the street, he gave him a
sound caning, ordering him, under pain of a worse flogging,
never again to mention his sister's name. This he
was probably more willing to do, as he had already conceived
a great liking for Carrie, who was silly enough to
be pleased with and suffer his attentions.
“I wonder, though, that Carrie allowed him to visit
her,” said Agnes, “but then I believe she is under some
obligations to him, and dare not refuse when he asked
permission to come.”
If Agnes knew what these obligations were, she did not
tell, and grandmother, who, during the narration had knit
with unwonted speed, making her needles rattle again,
said, “It's plain to me that Car'line let him come to make
folks think she had got a city beau.”
“Quite likely,” returned Agnes; “Carrie is a sad flirt,
but I think, at least, that she should not interfere with other
people's rights.”
Here my eye followed hers to Emma, who, I thought,
was looking a little paler. Just then Carrie and Ashmore
came in, and the latter throwing himself upon the sofa by
the side of Emma, took her hand caressingly, saying,
“How are you to-night, my dear?”
“Quite well,” was her quiet reply, and soon after, under
pretense of moving from the window, she took a seat
across the room. That night Mr. Ashmore accompanied
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Carrie and Agnes home, and it was at a much later hour
than usual, that old Rover first growled and then whined
as he recognized our visitor.
The next morning Emma was suffering from a severe
headache, which prevented her from appearing at breakfast.
Mr. Ashmore seemed somewhat disturbed, and made
many anxious inquiries about her. At dinner time she
was well enough to come, and the extreme kindness of
Mr. Ashmore's manner called a deep glow to her cheek.
After dinner, however, he departed for a walk, taking his
accustomed road toward Capt. Howard's.
When I returned from school he was still absent, and as
Emma was quite well, she asked me to accompany her to
my favorite resort, the old rock beneath the grape-vine.
We were soon there, and for a long time we sat watching
the shadows as they came and went upon the bright green
grass, and listening to the music of the brook, which
seemed to me to sing more sadly than it was wont to do.
Suddenly our ears were arrested by the sound of voices,
which we knew belonged to Mr. Ashmore and Carrie.
They were standing near us, just behind a clump of alders,
and Carrie, in reply to something Mr. Ashmore had said,
answered, “Oh, you can't be in earnest, for you have only
known me ten days, and besides that, what have you done
with your pale, sick lady?”
Instantly I started up, clinching my fist in imitation of
brother Billy when he was angry, but Cousin Emma's arm
was thrown convulsively around me, as drawing me closely
to her side, she whispered, “keep quiet.”
I did keep quiet, and listened while Mr. Ashmore replied,
“I entertain for Miss Rushton the highest esteem,
for I know she possesses many excellent qualities. Once
I thought I loved her, (how tightly Emma held me,) but
she has been sick a long time, and somehow I cannot
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marry an invalid. Whether she ever gets well is doubtful,
and even if she does, after having seen you, she can
be nothing to me. And yet I like her, and when I am
alone with her I almost fancy I love her, but one look at
your sparkling, healthy face drives her from my mind —”
The rest of what he said I could not hear, neither did I
understand Carrie's answer, but his next words were distinct,
“My dear Carrie forever.”
I know the brook stopped running, or at least I did not
hear it. The sun went down; the birds went to rest;
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie went home; and still I sat there
by the side of Emma, who had lain her head in my lap,
and was so still and motionless that the dread fear came
over me that she might be dead. I attempted to lift her
up, saying, “Cousin Emma, speak to me, won't you?”
but she made me no answer, and another ten minutes went
by. By this time the stars had come out and were looking
quietly down upon us. The waters of the mill-dam
chanted mournfully, and in my disordered imagination,
fantastic images danced before the entrance of the old
mine. Half crying with fear, I again laid my hand on
Emma's head. Her hair was wet with the heavy night
dews, and my eyes were wet with something else, as I
said, “Oh, Emma, speak to me, for I am afraid and want
to go home.”
This roused her, and lifting up her head I caught a
glimse of a face of so startling whiteness, that throwing
my arms around her neck, I cried, “Oh, Emma, dear Emma,
don't look so. I love you a great deal better than I
do Carrie Howard, and so I am sure does Mr. Evelyn.”
I don't know how I chanced to think of Mr. Evelyn,
but he recurred to me naturally enough. All thoughts
of him, however, were soon driven from my mind, by the
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sound of Emma's voice, as she said, “Mollie, darling, can
you keep a secret?”
I didn't think I could, as I never had been entrusted
with one, so I advised her to give it to Anna, who was
very fond of them. But she said, “I am sure you can do
it, Mollie. Promise me that you will not tell them at
home what you have seen or heard.”
I promised, and then in my joy at owning a secret, I forgot
the little figures which waltzed back and forth before the
old mine, I forgot the woods through which we passed,
nor was the silence broken until we reached the lane.
Then I said, “What shall we tell the folks when they ask
where we have been?”
“Leave that to me,” answered Emma.
As we drew near the house, we met grandmother, Juliet,
Anna and Sally, all armed and equipped for a general
hunt. We were immediately assailed with a score of
questions as to what had kept us so long. I looked to
Emma for the answer, at the same time keeping my hand
tightly over my mouth for fear I should tell.
“We found more things of interest than we expected,”
said Emma, consequently tarried longer than we should
otherwise have done.”
“Why, how hoarse you be,” said grandmother, while
Sally continued, “Starlight is a mighty queer time to see
things in.”
“Some things look better by starlight,” answered Emma;
“but we staid longer than we ought to, for I have
got a severe headache and must go immediately to bed.”
“Have some tea first,” said grandmother, “and some
strawberries and cream,” repeated Sally; but Emma declined
both and went at once to her room.
Mr. Ashmore did not come home until late that night,
for I was awake and heard him stumbling up stairs in the
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dark. I remember, too, of having experienced the very
benevolent wish that he would break his neck! As I expected,
Emma did not make her appearance at the breakfast
table, but about ten she came down to the parlor and
asked to see Mr. Ashmore alone. Of what occurred during
that interval I never knew, except that at its close
cousin looked very white, and Mr. Ashmore very black,
notwithstanding which he soon took his accustomed walk
to Capt. Howard's. He was gone about three hours, and
on his return announced his intention of going to Boston
in the afternoon train. No one opposed him, for all were
glad to have him go.
Just before he left, grandmother, who knew all was not
right, said to him,—“Young man, I wish you well; but
mind what I say, you'll get your pay yet for the capers
you've cut here.”
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he returned, with much
more emphasis on madam than was at all necessary, “I
beg your pardon, but I think she has cut the capers, at
least she dismissed me of her own accord.”
I thought of what I had heard, but 't was a secret, so I
kept it safely, although I almost bit my tongue off in my
zealous efforts. After Ashmore was gone, Emma, who
had taken a violent cold the evening before, took her bed,
and was slightly ill for nearly a week. Almost every day
Mr. Evelyn called to see how she was, always bringing
her a fresh bouquet of flowers. On Thursday, Carrie
called, bringing Emma some ice cream which Aunt Eunice
had made. She did not ask to see her, but before
she left she asked Anna if she did not wish to buy her old
piano.
“What will you do without it?” asked Anna.
“Oh,” said Carrie, “I cannot use two. I have got a
new one.”
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The stocking dropped from grandmother's hand as she
exclaimed—“What is the world a comin' to! Got two
pianners! Where'd you get 'em?”
“My new one was a present, and came from Boston,”
answered Carrie, with the utmost sang froid.
“You don't say Ashmore sent it to you!—how much
did it cost?” asked grandma.
“Mr. Ashmore wrote that it cost three hundred and
fifty dollars,” was Carrie's reply.
Grandmother was perfectly horror stricken; but desirous
of making Carrie feel as comfortable as possible, she
said, “Sposin' somebody should tell him about Penoyer?”
For an instant Carrie turned pale, as she said quickly,
“What does any one know about him to tell?”
“A great deal—more than you think they do—yes, a
great deal,” was grandma's answer.
After that, Carrie came very frequently to see us, always
bringing something nice for Emma or grandma!
Meanwhile Mr. Evelyn's visits continued, and when at
last Emma could see him, I was sure that she received
him more kindly than she ever had before. “That'll go
yet,” was grandma's prediction. But her scheming was
cut short by a letter from Emma's father, requesting her
immediate return. Mr. Evelyn, who found he had business
which required his presence in Worcester, was to
accompany her thus far. It was a sad day when she left
us, for she was a universal favorite. Sally cried, I cried,
and Bill either cried or made believe, for he very industriously
wiped his eyes and nasal organ on his shirt sleeves;
besides that, things went on wrong side up generally.
Grandma was cross—Sally was cross—and the school
teacher was cross; the bucket fell into the well, and the
cows got into the corn. I got called up at school and set
with some hateful boys, one of whom amused himself by
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pricking me with a pin, and when, in self-defense, I gave
him a good pinch, he actually yelled out—“She keeps a
pinchin' me!” On the whole, 'twas a dreadful day, and
when at night I threw myself exhausted upon my little
bed, I cried myself to sleep, thinking of Cousin Emma and
wishing she would come back.
CHAPTER VI. MIKE AND SALLY.
I have spoken of Sally, but have said nothing of Mike,
whom, of all my father's hired men, I liked the best. He
it was who made the best cornstalk fiddles, and whittled
out the shrillest whistles with which to drive grandma
“ravin' distracted.” He, too, it was who, on cold
winter mornings, carried Lizzie to school in his arms, making
me forget how my fingers ached, by telling some
exploit of his school days.
I do not wonder that Sally liked him, and I always had an
idea how that liking would end, but did not think it would
be so soon. Consequently, I suspected nothing when Sally's
white dress was bleached on the grass in the clothes'
yard, for nearly a week. One day Billy came to me with
a face full of wonder, saying he had just overheard Mike
tell one of the men that he and Sally were going to be
married in a few weeks.
I knew now what all that bleaching was for, and why
Sally bought so much cotton lace of pedlars. I was in
ecstacies, too, for I had never seen any one married, but
regretted the circumstance, whatever it might have been,
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which prevented me from being present at mother's marriage.
Like many other children, I had been deceived
into the belief that the marriage ceremony consisted
mainly in leaping the broomstick, and, by myself, I had
frequently tried the experiment, delighted to find that I
could jump it at almost any distance from the ground;
but I had some misgivings as to Sally's ability to clear
the stick, for she was rather clumsy; however, I should
see the fun, for they were to be married at our house.
A week before the time appointed, mother was taken
very ill, which made it necessary that the wedding should
be postponed, or take place somewhere else. To the first,
Mike would not hear, and as good old Parson S—,
whose sermons were never more than two hours long,
came regularly every Sunday night to preach in the school-house,
Mike proposed that they be married there. Sally
did not like this exactly, but grandmother, who now
ruled the household, sait it was just the thing, and accordingly
it took place there.
The house was filled full, and those who could not obtain
seats took their station near the windows. Our party
was early, but I was three times compelled to relinquish
my seat in favor of more distinguished persons, and I began
to think that if any one was obliged to go home for
want of room, it would be me; but I resolutely determined
not to go. I'd climb the chestnut tree first! At last I
was squeezed on a high desk between two old ladies,
wearing two old black bonnets, their breath sufficiently
tinctured with tobacco smoke to be very disagreeable to
me, whose olfactories chanced to be rather aristocratic
than otherwise.
To my horror, Father S— concluded to give us the
sermon before he did the bride. He was afraid some of
his audience would leave. Accordingly there ensued a
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prayer half an hour long, after which eight verses of a
long metre psalm were sung to the tune of Windham.
By this time I gave a slight sign to the two old ladies
that I would like to move, but they merely shook their
two black bonnets at me, telling me, in fierce whispers,
that “I must n't stir in meetin'.” Must n't stir! I wonder
how I could stir, squeezed in as I was, unless they
chose to let me. So I sat bolt upright, looking straight
ahead at a point where the tips of my red shoes were visible,
for my feet were sticking straight out.
All at once, my attention was drawn to a spider on the
wall, who was laying a net for a fly, and in watching his
maneuvers I forgot the lapse of time, until Father S—
had passed his sixthly and seventhly, and was driving furiously
away at the eighthly. By this time the spider
had caught the fly, whose cries sounded to me like the
waters of the saw-mill; the tips of my red shoes looked
like the red berries which grew near the mine; the two
old ladies at my side were transformed into two tall black
walnut trees, while I seemed to be sliding down hill.
At this juncture, one of the old ladies moved away
from me a foot at least, (she could have done so before,
had she chosen to,) and I was precipitated off from the
bench, striking my head on the sharp corner of a seat below.
It was a dreadful blow which I received, making
the blood gush from my nostrils. My loud screams
brought matters to a focus, and the sermon to an end.
My grandmother and one of the old ladies took me and
the water pail out doors, where I was literally deluged;
at the same time they called me “Poor girl! Poor Mollie!
Little dear, &c.”
But while they were attending to my bumped head,
Mike and Sally were married, and I did n't see it after all!
'Twas too bad!
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CHAPTER VII. THE BRIDE.
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After Sally's marriage, there occurred at our house
an interval of quiet, enlivened occasionally by letters from
Cousin Emma, whose health was not as much improved
by her visit to the country as she had at first hoped it
would be; consequently, she proposed spending the winter
south. Meantime, from Boston letters came frequently
to Carrie Howard, and as the autumn advanced,
things within and about her father's house foretold some
unusual event. Two dress-makers were hired from the
village, and it was stated, on good authority, that among
Carrie's wardrobe was a white satin and an elegantly embroidered
merino traveling dress.
Numerous were the surmises of Juliet and Anna as
to who and how many would be invited to the wedding.
All misgivings concerning themselves were happily
brought to an end a week before the time, for there came
to our house handsome cards of invitation for Juliet and
Anna, and—I could scarcely believe my eyes—there was
one for me too. For this I was indebted to Aunt Eunice,
who had heard of and commiserated my misfortunes at
Sally's wedding.
I was sorry that my invitation came so soon, for I had
but little hope that the time would ever come. It did,
however, and so did Mr. Ashmore and Agnes. As soon
as dinner was over, I commenced my toilet, although the
wedding was not to take place until eight that evening;
but then I believed, as I do now, in being ready in season.
Oh, how slowly the hours passed, and at last in perfect
despair I watched my opportonity to set the clock
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forward when no one saw me. For this purpose I put the
footstool in a chair, and mounting, was about to move the
long hand, when—
But I always was the most unfortunate of mortals, so
'twas no wonder that at this point the chair slipped, the stool
slipped, and I slipped. I caught at the clock to save myself;
consequently both clock and I came to the floor with a terrible
crash. My first thought was for the hooks and eyes,
which, undoubtedly, were scattered with the fragments of
the clock, but fortunately every hook was in its place,
and only one eye was straightened. I draw a vail over
the scolding which I got, and the numerous threats that
I should stay at home.
As the clock was broken we had no means for judging
of the time, and thus we were among the first who arrived
at Capt. Howard's. This gave Juliet and Anna an
opportunity of telling Agnes of my mishap. She laughed
heartily, and then immediately changing the subject, she
inquired after Cousin Emma, and when we had heard
from her. After replying to these questions, Anna asked
Agnes about Penoyer, and when she had seen him.
“Don't mention it,” said Agnes, “but I have a suspicion
that he stopped yesterday at the depot when I did.
I may have been mistaken, for I was looking after my
baggage and only caught a glimpse of him. If it were
he, his presence bodes no good.”
“Have you told Carrie?” asked Juliet.
“No, I have not. She seems so nervous whenever he
is mentioned,” was Agnes' reply.
I thought of the obligations once referred to by Agnes,
and felt that I should breathe more freely when Carrie
really was married. Other guests now began to arrive, and
we who had fixed long enough before the looking glass,
repaired to the parlor below. Bill, who saw Sally married,
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had convinced me that the story of the broomstick was a
falsehood, so I was prepared for its absence, but I wondered
then, not more than I do now, why grown up people
should n't be whipped for telling untruths to children,
as well as children for telling untruths to grown up
people.
The parlor was now rapidly filling, and I was in great
danger of being thrust into the corner, where I could see
nothing, when Aunt Eunice very benevolently drew me
near her, saying, I should see, if no one else did. At last
Mr. Ashmore and Carrie came. Anna can tell you exactly
what she wore, but I cannot. I only know that
she looked most beautifully, though I have a vague recollection
of fancying that in the making of her dress,
the sleeves were forgotten entirely, and the neck very
nearly so.
The marriage ceremony commenced, and I listened
breathlessly, but this did not prevent me from hearing
some one enter the house by the kitchen door. Aunt
Eunice heard it, too, and when the minister began to say
something about Mrs. Ashmore, she arose and went out.
Something had just commenced, I think they called them
congratulations, when the crowd around the door began
to huddle together in order to make room for some person
to enter. I looked up and saw Penoyer, his glittering
teeth now partially disclosed, looking a very little
fiendish, I thought. Carrie saw him, too, and instantly
turned as white as the satin dress she wore, while Agnes,
who seemed to have some suspicion of his errand, exclaimed,
“impudent scoundrel!” at the same time advancing
forward, she laid her hand upon his arm.
He shook it off lightly, saying, “Pardonnez moi, ma
chere; I've no come to trouble you.” Then turning to
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Ashmore he said, pointing to Carrie, “She be your wife,
I take it?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ashmore haughtily. “Have you
any objections? If so they have come too late.”
“Not von, not in the least, no sar,” said the Frenchman,
bowing nearly to the floor. “It give me one grand
plaisir; so now you will please settle von leetle bill I have
against her;” at the same time he drew from his pocket
a sheet of half-worn paper.
Carrie, who was leaning heavily against Mr. Ashmore,
instantly sprang forward and endeavored to snatch the
paper, saying half imploringly, “Don't, Penoyer, you
know my father will pay it.”
But Penoyer passed it to Mr. Ashmore, while Capt.
Howard, coming forward, said, “Pay what? What is all
this about!”
“Only a trifle,” said Penoyer; “just a bill for giving
your daughter musique lessons three years in Albany.”
“You give my daughter music lessons?” demanded
Capt. Howard.
“Oui, Monsieur, I do that same thing,” answered
Penoyer.
“Oh, Carrie, Carrie,” said Capt. Howard, in his surprise,
forgetting the time and place, “why did you tell
me that your knowledge of music you acquired yourself,
with the assistance of your cousin, and a little help from
her music teacher, and why, when this man was here a
few months ago, did you not tell me he was your music
teacher and had not been paid.”
Bursting into tears, Carrie answered, “Forgive me,
father, but he said he had no bill against me; he made no
charge.”
“But she gave me von big, large mitten,” said the
Frenchman, “when she see this man, who has more
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l'argent; but no difference, no difference, sar, this gentleman,”
bowing toward Ashmore, “parfaitement delighted
to pay it.”
Whether he were delighted or not, he did pay it, for
drawing from his pocket his purse, while his large black
eyes emitted gleams of fire, he counted out the required
amount, one hundred and twenty-five dollars; then confronting
Penoyer, he said, fiercely, “Give me a receipt for
this, instantly, after which I will take it upon me to show
you the door.”
“Certainement, certainement, all I want is my l'argent,”
said Penoyer.
The money was paid, the receipt given, and then, as
Penoyer hesitated a moment, Ashmore said, “Are you
waiting to be helped out, sir?”
“No, Monsieur, si vous plait, I have tree letters from
Madame, which will give you one grande satisfaction to
read.” Then tossing toward Ashmore the letters, with a
malicious smile he left the house.
Poor Carrie! When sure that he was gone, she fainted
away and was carried from the room. At supper, however,
she made her appearance, and after that was over,
the guests, unopposed, left en masse.
What effect Penoyer's disclosures had on Ashmore we
never exactly knew, but when, a few days before the
young couple left home, they called at our house, we all
fancied that Carrie was looking more thoughtful than usual,
while a cloud seemed to be resting on Ashmore's brow.
The week following their marriage they left for New
York, where they were going to reside. During the winter
Carrie wrote home frequently, giving accounts of the
many gay and fashionable parties which she attended, and
once in a letter to Anne she wrote, “The flattering
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attentions which I receive have more than once made Ashmore
jealous.”
Two years from the time they were married, Mrs. Ashmore
was brought back to her home, a pale faded invalid,
worn out by constant dissipation and the care of a
sickly baby, so poor and blue that even I couldn't bear to
touch it. Three days after their arrival Mr. Evelyn
brought to us his bride, Cousin Emma, blooming with
health and beauty. I could scarcely believe that the exceedingly
beautiful Mrs. Evelyn was the same white faced
girl, who, two years before, had sat with me beneath the
old grape-vine.
The day after she came, I went with her to visit Carrie,
who, the physicians said, was in a decline. I had not seen
her before since her return, and on entering the sick-room,
I was as much surprised at her haggard face, sunken eyes,
and sallow skin, as was Mr. Ashmore at the appearance
of Emma. “Is it possible,” said he, coming forward, “Is
it possible, Emma—Mrs. Evelyn, that you have entirely
recovered?”
I remembered what he had once said about “invalid
wives,” and I feared that the comparison he was evidently
making would not be very favorable toward Carrie. We
afterwards learned, however, that he was the kindest of
husbands, frequently walking half the night with his crying
baby, and at other times trying to soothe his nervous
wife, who was sometimes very irritable.
Before we left, Carrie drew Emma closely to her and
said, “They tell me I probably shall never get well, and
now, while I have time, I wish to ask your forgiveness for
the great wrong I once did you.”
“How? When?” asked Emma, quickly, and Carrie
continued: “When first I saw him who is my husband, I
determined to leave no means untried to secure him for
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myself; I knew you were engaged, but I fancied that
your ill health annoyed him, and I played my part well.
You know how I succeeded, but I am sure you forgive
me, for you love Mr. Evelyn quite as well, perhaps better.”
“Yes, far better,” was Emma's reply, as she kissed
Carrie's wan cheek; then bidding her good-by, she promised
to call frequently during her stay in town. She kept
her word, and was often accompanied by Mr. Evelyn,
who strove faithfully and successfully, too, to lead into
the path of peace, her whose days were well nigh ended.
'Twas on one of those bright days in the Indian summer
time, that Carrie at last slept the sleep that knows no
awakening. The evening after the burial, I went in at
Capt. Howard's, and all the animosity I had cherished for
Mr. Ashmore vanished, when I saw the large tear-drops,
as they fell on the face of his motherless babe, whose
wailing cries he endeavored in vain to hush. When the
first snow flakes came, they fell on a little mound, where
by the side of her mother Mr. Ashmore had laid his baby,
Emma.
Now, side by side they are sleeping,
In the grave's dark, dreamless bed,
While the willow boughs seem weeping,
As they bend above the dead.
And now, dear reader, after telling you that, yielding
to the importunities of Emma's parents, Mr. Evelyn, at
last moved to the city, where, if I mistake not, he is still
living, my story is finished. But do not, I pray you,
think that these few pages contain all that I know of the
olden time:
Oh no, far down in memory's well,
Exhaustless stores remain,
From which, perchance, some future day,
I'll weave a tale again.
-- -- p598-162
The Gilberts; OR, RICE CORNER NUMBER TWO.
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CHAPTER I. THE GILBERTS.
The spring following Carrie Howard's death, Rice Corner
was thrown into a commotion by the astounding fact
that Capt. Howard was going out west, and had sold his
farm to a gentleman from the city, whose wife “kept six
servants, wore silk all the time, never went inside of the
kitchen, never saw a churn, breakfasted at ten, dined at
three, and had supper the next day!”
Such was the story which Mercy Jenkins detailed to
us, early one Monday morning, and then, eager to communicate
so desirable a piece of news to others of her acquaintance,
she started off, stopping for a moment as she
passed the wash-room, to see if Sally's clothes “wan't
kinder dingy and yaller.” As soon as she was gone, the
astonishment of our household broke forth, grandma wondering
why Capt. Howard wanted to go to the ends of
the earth, as she designated Chicago, their place of destination,
and what she should do without Aunt Eunice,
who, having been born on grandma's wedding day, was
very dear to her, and then her age was so easy to keep!
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But the best of friends must part, and when at Mrs. Howard's
last tea-drinking with us, I saw how badly they all
felt, and how many tears were shed, I firmly resolved
never to like anybody but my own folks, unless, indeed, I
made an exception in favor of Tom Jenkins, who so often
drew me to school on his sled, and who made such comical
looking jack-o'-lanterns out of the big yellow pumpkins.
In reply to the numerous questions concerning Mr. Gilbert,
the purchaser of their farm, Mrs. Howard could only
reply, that he was very wealthy and had got tired of living
in the city; adding, further, that he wore a “monstrous
pair of musquitoes,” had an evil looking eye, four
children, smoked cigars, and was a lawyer by profession.
This last was all grandma wanted to know about him,—
“that told the whole story,” for there never was but one
decent lawyer, and that was Mr. Evelyn, Cousin Emma's
husband. Dear old lady! — when, a few years ago, she
heard that I, her favorite grandchild, was to marry one
of the craft, she made another exception in his favor, saying
that “if he wasn't all straight, Mary would soon make
him so!”
Within a short time after Aunt Eunice's visit, she left
Rice Corner, and on the same day wagon load after wagon
load of Mr. Gilbert's furniture passed our house, until
Sally declared “there was enough to keep a tavern, and
she didn't see nothin' where they's goin' to put it,” at the
same time announcing her intention of “running down
there after dinner, to see what was going on.”
It will be remembered that Sally was now a married
woman—“Mrs. Michael Welsh;” consequently, mother,
who lived with her, instead of her living with mother, did
not presume to interfere with her much, though she hinted
pretty strongly that she “always liked to see people mind
their own affairs.” But Sally was incorrigible. The
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dinner dishes were washed with a whew, I was coaxed into
sweeping the back room — which I did, leaving the dirt
under the broom behind the door — while Mrs. Welsh,
donning a pink calico, blue shawl, and bonnet trimmed
with dark green, started off on her prying excursion, stopping
by the roadside where Mike was making fence, and
keeping him, as grandma said, “full half an hour by the
clock from his work.”
Not long after Sally's departure, a handsome carriage,
drawn by two fine bay horses, passed our house; and, as
the windows were down, we could plainly discern a pale,
delicate-looking lady, wrapped in shawls, a tall, stylishlooking
girl, another one about my own age, and two
beautiful little boys.
“That's the Gilberts, I know,” said Anna. “Oh, I 'm
so glad Sally's gone, for now we shall have the full particulars;”
and again we waited as impatiently for Sally's
return as we had once done before for grandma.
At last, to our great relief, the green ribbons and blue
shawl were described in the distance, and ere long Sally
was with us, ejaculating, “Oh, my — mercy me!” etc.,
thus giving us an inkling of what was to follow. “Of all
the sights that ever I have seen,” said she, folding up the
blue shawl, and smoothing down the pink calico. “There's
carpeting enough to cover every crack and crevice — all
pure Bristles, too!”
Here I tittered, whereupon Sally angrily retorted, that
“she guessed she knew how to talk proper, if she had n't
studied grarmar.”
“Never mind,” said Anna, “go on; Brussels carpeting
and what else?”
“Mercy knows what else,” answered Sally. “I can't
begin to guess the names of half the things. There's mahogany,
and rosewood, and marble fixin's,—and in Miss
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Gilbert's room there's lace curtains and silk damson
ones—”
A look from Anna restrained me this time, and Sally
continued.
“Mercy Jenkins is there, helpin', and she says Mr. Gilbert
told 'em his wife never et a piece of salt pork in her
life, and knew no more how bread was made than a child
two years old.”
“What a simple critter she must be,” said grandma,
while Anna asked if she saw Mrs. Gilbert, and if that tall
girl was her daughter.
“Yes, I seen her,” answered Sally, “and I guess she's
weakly, for the minit she got into the house she lay down
on the sofa, which Mr. Gilbert says cost seventy-five dollars.
That tall, proud-lookin' thing they call Miss Adaline,
but I'll warrant you don't catch me puttin' on the
Miss. I called her Adaline, and you had orto seen how
her big eyes looked at me. Says she, at last, `Are you
one of pa's new servants?'
“`Servants!' says I, `no, indeed; I 'm Mrs. Michael
Welsh, one of your nighest neighbors.'
“Then I told her that there were two nice girls lived
in the house with me, and she 'd better get acquainted
with 'em, right away; and then with the hatefulest of all
hateful laughs, she asked if `they wore glass beads and
went barefoot.”'
I fancied that neither Juliet nor Anna were greatly
pleased at being introduced by Sally, the housemaid, to
the elegant Adaline Gilbert, who had come to the country
with anything but a favorable impression of its inhabitants.
The second daughter, the one about my own
age, Sally said they called Nellie; “and a nice, clever
creature she is, too — not a bit stuck up like t'other one.
Why, I do believe she'd walked every big beam in the
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barn before she'd been there half an hour, and the last I
saw of her, she was coaxing a cow to lie still while she got
upon her back!”
How my heart warmed toward the romping Nellie, and
how I wondered if, after that beam-walking exploit, her
hooks and eyes were all in their places! The two little
boys, Sally said, were twins, Edward and Egbert, or, as
they were familiarly called, Burt and Eddie. This was
nearly all she had learned, if we except the fact that the
family ate with silver forks, and drank wine after dinner.
This last, mother pronounced heterodox, while I, who
dearly loved the juice of the grape, and sometimes left
finger marks on the top shelf, whither I had climbed for
a sip from grandma's decanter, secretly hoped I should
some day dine with Nellie Gilbert, and drink all the wine
I wanted, thinking how many times I'd rinse my mouth
so mother should n't smell my breath!
In the course of a few weeks the affairs of the Gilbert
family were pretty generally canvassed in Rice Corner,
Mercy Jenkins giving it as her opinion that “Miss Gilbert
was much the likeliest of the two, and that Mr. Gilbert
was cross, overbearing, and big feeling.”
CHAPTER II. NELLIE.
As yet I had only seen Nellie in the distance, and was
about despairing of making her acquaintance, when accident
threw her in my way. Directly opposite our house,
and just accross a long green meadow, was a piece of
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woods which belonged to Mr. Gilbert, and there, one afternoon
early in May, I saw Nellie. I had seen her there
before, but never dared approach her; and now I divided
my time between watching her and a dense black cloud
which had appeared in the west, and was fast approaching
the zenith. I was just thinking how nice it would be
if the rain should drive her to our house for shelter, when
patter, patter came the large drops in my face; thicker
and faster they fell, until it seemed like a perfect deluge;
and through the almost blinding sheet of rain I descried
Nellie coming toward me at a furious rate. With the
agility of a fawn she bounded over the gate, and with the
exclamation of, “Ain't I wetter than a drownded rat?”
we were perfectly well acquainted.
It took but a short time to divest her of her dripping
garments, and array her in some of mine, which Sally said
“fitted her to a T,” though I fancied she looked sadly out
of place in my linen pantalets and long-sleeved dress. She
was a great lover of fun and frolic, and in less than half
an hour had “ridden to Boston” on Joe's rocking-horse,
turned the little wheel faster than even I dared to turn
it, tried on grandma's stays, and then, as a crowning feat,
tried the rather dangerous experiment of riding down the
garret stairs on a board! The clatter brought up grandma,
and I felt some doubts about her relishing a kind of
play which savored so much of what she called “a racket,”
but the soft brown eyes which looked at her so pleadingly,
were too full of love, gentleness, and mischief to be resisted,
and permission for “one more ride” was given,
“provided she'd promise not to break her neck.”
Oh, what fun we had that afternoon! What a big rent
she tore in my gingham frock, and what a “dear, delightful
old haunted castle of a thing” she pronounced our
house to be. Darling, darling Nellie! I shut my eyes,
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and she comes before me again, the same bright, beautiful
creature she was when I saw her first, as she was when
I saw her for the last, last time.
It rained until dark, and Nellie, who confidently expected
to stay all night, had whispered to me her intention
of “tying our toes together,” when there came a
tremendous rap upon the door, and, without waiting to
be bidden, in walked Mr. Gilbert, puffing and swelling,
and making himself perfectly at home, in a kind of offhand
manner, which had in it so much of condescension
that I was disgusted, and, when sure Nellie would not
see me, I made at him a wry face, thereby feeling greatly
relieved!
After managing to let mother know how expensive his
family was, how much he paid yearly for wines and cigars,
and how much Adaline's education and piano had cost,
he arose to go, saying to his daughter, “Come, Puss,
take off those, — ahem! — those habiliments, and let's be
off!”
Nellie obeyed, and just before she was ready to start,
she asked, “When I would come and spend the day with
her?”
I looked at mother, mother looked at Mr. Gilbert, Mr.
Gilbert looked at me, and after surveying me from head
to foot, said, spitting between every other word, “Ye-es,
ye-es, we've come to live in the country, and I suppose,
(here he spit three successive times,) and I suppose we
may as well be on friendly terms as any other; so madam,
(turning to mother,) I am willing to have your little
daughter visit us occasionally.” Then adding that “he
would extend the same invitation to her, were it not that
his wife was an invalid and saw no company,” he departed.
One morning, several days afterward, a servant brought
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to our house a neat little note from Mrs. Gilbert, asking
mother to let me spend the day with Nellie. After some
consultation between mother and grandma, it was decided
that I might go, and in less than an hour I was
dressed and on the road, my hair braided so tightly in
my neck that the little red bumps of flesh set up here
and there, like currants on a brown earthen platter.
Nellie did not wait to receive me formally, but came
running down the road, telling me that Robin had made
a swing in the barn, and that we would play there most
all day, as her mother was sick, and Adaline, who occupied
two-thirds of the house, would n't let us come near
her. This Adaline was to me a very formidable personage.
Hitherto I had only caught glimpses of her, as with
long skirts and waving plumes she sometimes dashed past
our house on horseback, and it was with great trepidation
that I now followed Nellie into the parlor, where she
told me her sister was.
“Adaline, this is my little friend,” said she; and Adaline
replied, “How do you do, little friend?”
My cheeks tingled, and for the first time, raising my
eyes, I found myself face to face with the haughty belle.
She was very tall and queen-like in her figure, and though
she could hardly be called handsome, there was about her
an air of elegance and refinement which partially compensated
for the absence of beauty. That she was proud,
one could see from the glance of her large black eyes and
the curl of her lip. Coolly surveying me for a moment,
as she would any other curious specimen, she resumed
her book, never speaking to me again, except to ask,
when she saw me gazing wonderingly around the splendidly
furnished room, “if I supposed I could remember
every article of furniture, and give a faithful report.”
I thought I was insulted when she called me “little
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friend,” and now, feeling sure of it, I tartly replied, that
“if I couldn't, she, perhaps, might lend me paper and
pencil, with which to write them down.”
“Original, truly,” said she, again poring over her book.
Nellie, who had left me for a moment, now returned,
bidding me come and see her mother, and passing through
the long hall, I was soon in Mrs. Gilbert's room, which
was as tastefully, though perhaps not quite so richly, furnished
as the parlor. Mrs. Gilbert was lying upon a sofa,
and the moment I looked upon her, the love which I had
so freely given the daughter, was shared with the mother,
in whose pale, sweet face, and soft, brown eyes, I saw
a strong resemblance to Nellie. She was attired in a
rose-colored morning-gown, which flowed open in front,
disclosing to view a larger quantity of rich French embroidery
than I had ever before seen.
Many times during the day, and many times since,
have I wondered what made her marry, and if she really
loved, the bearish looking man who occasionally stalked
into the room, smoking cigars and talking very loudly,
when he knew how her head was throbbing with pain.
I had eaten but little breakfast that morning, and verily
I thought I should famish before their dinner hour arrived;
and when at last it came, and I saw the table glittering
with silver, I felt many misgivings as to my ability
to acquit myself creditably. But by dint of watching
Nellie, doing just what she did, and refusing just what
she refused, I managed to get through with it tolerably
well. For once, too, in my life, I drank all the wine I
wanted; the result of which was, that long before sunset
I went home, crying and vomiting with the sick headache,
which Sally said “served me right;” at the same
time hinting her belief that I was slightly intoxicated!
-- 166 -- p598-171
CHAPTER III. THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
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Down our long, green lane, and at the farther extremity
of the narrow foot-path which led to the “old mine,”
was another path or wagon road, which wound along
among the fern bushes, under the chestnut trees, across
the hemlock swamp, and up to a grassy ridge which overlooked
a small pond, said, of course, to have no bottom.
Fully crediting this story, and knowing, moreover, that
China was opposite to us, I had often taken down my
atlas and hunted through that ancient empire, in hopes
of finding a corresponding sheet of water. Failing to do
so, I had made one with my pencil, writing against it,
“Cranberry Pond,” that being the name of its American
brother.
Just above the pond on the grassy ridge, stood an old,
dilapidated building, which had long borne the name of
the “haunted house.” I never knew whether this title
was given it on account of its proximity to the “old
mine,” or because it stood near the very spot where,
years and years ago, the “bloody Indians” pushed those
cart loads of burning hemp against the doors “of the
only remaining house in Quaboag”—for which see Goodrich's
Child's History, page —, somewhere toward the
commencement. I only know that 't was called the
“haunted house,” and that, for a long time, no one would
live there, on account of the rapping, dancing, and cutting
up generally, which was said to prevail there, particularly
in the west room, the one overhung by creepers
and grape-vines.
Three or four years before our story opens, a widow
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lady, Mrs. Hudson, with her only daughter, Mabel, appeared
in our neighborhood, hiring the “haunted house,”
and, in spite of the neighbors' predictions to the contrary,
living there quietly and peaceably, unharmed by ghost or
goblin. At first, Mrs. Hudson was looked upon with distrust,
and even a league with a certain old fellow was
hinted at; but as she seemed to be well disposed, kind,
and affable toward all, this feeling gradually wore away,
and now she was universally liked, while Mabel, her
daughter, was a general favorite. For two years past,
Mabel had worked in the Fiskdale factory a portion of
the time, going to school the remainder of the year. She
was fitting herself for a teacher, and as the school in our
district was small, the trustees had this summer kindly
offered it to her. This arrangement delighted me; for,
next to Nellie Gilbert, I loved Mabel Hudson best of
anybody; and I fancied, too, that they looked alike, but
of course it was all fancy.
Mrs. Hudson was a tailoress, and the day following my
visit to Mr. Gilbert's I was sent by mother to take her
some work. I found her in the little porch, her white
cap-border falling over her placid face, and her wide
checked apron coming nearly to the bottom of her dress.
Mabel was there, too, and as she arose to receive me,
something about her reminded me of Adaline Gilbert. I
could not tell what it was, for Mabel was very beautiful,
and beside her Adaline would be plain; still, there was a
resemblance, either in voice or manner, and this it was,
perhaps, which made me so soon mention the Gilberts,
and my visit to them the day previous.
Instantly Mrs. Hudson and Mabel exchanged glances,
and I thought the face of the former grew a shade paler;
still, I may have been mistaken, for, in her usual tone of
voice, she began to ask me numberless questions
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concerning the family, which seemed singular, as she was not remarkable
for curiosity. But it suited me. I loved to
talk then not less than I do now, and in a few minutes I
had told all I knew, and more, too, most likely.
At last, Mrs. Hudson asked about Mr. Gilbert, and how
I liked him.
“Not a bit,” said I. “He's the hatefulest, crossest,
big-feelingest man I ever saw, and Adaline is just like
him!”
Had I been a little older I might, perhaps, have wondered
at the crimson flush which my hasty words brought
to Mrs. Hudson's cheek, but I did not notice it then, and
thinking she was, of course, highly entertained, I continued
to talk about Mr. Gilbert and Adaline, in the last of
whom Mabel seemed the most interested. Of Nellie I
spoke with the utmost affection, and when Mrs. Hudson
expressed a wish to see her, I promised, if possible, to
bring her there; then, as I had already outstaid the time
for which permission had been given, I tied on my sun-bonnet
and started for home, revolving the ways and
means by which I should keep my promise.
This proved to be a very easy matter; for, within a
few days, Nellie came to return my visit, and as mother
had other company, she the more readily gave us permission
to go where we pleased. Nellie had a perfect passion
for ghost and witch stories, saying, though, that “she
never liked to have them explained—she'd rather they'd
be left in solemn mystery;” so when I told her of the
“old mine” and the “haunted house,” she immediately
expressed a desire to see them. Hiding our bonnets under
our aprons, the better to conceal our intentions from
sister Lizzie, who, we fancied, had serious thoughts of
tagging, we sent her up stairs in quest of something
which we knew was not there, and then away we
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scampered down the green lane and across the pasture, dropping
once into some alders as Lizzie's yellow hair became
visible on the fence at the foot of the lane. Our consciences
smote us a little, but we kept still until she returned
to the house; then, continuing our way, we soon
came in sight of the mine, which Nellie determined to
explore.
It was in vain that I tried to dissuade her from the attempt.
She was resolved, and stationing myself at a safe
distance, I waited while she scrambled over stones, sticks,
logs, and bushes, until she finally disappeared in the cave.
Ere long, however, she returned with soiled pantalets, torn
apron, and scratched face, saying that “the mine was nothing
in the world but a hole in the ground, and a mighty
little one at that.” After this, I didn't know but I would
sometime venture in, but for fear of what might happen,
I concluded to choose a time when I had 'nt run away
from Liz!
When I presented Nellie to Mrs. Hudson, she took
both her hands in hers, and, greatly to my surprise, kissed
her on both cheeks. Then she walked hastily into the
next room, but not until I saw something fall from her
eyes, which I am sure were tears.
“Funny, isn't it?” said Nellie, looking wonderingly at
me. “I don't know whether to laugh, or what.”
Mabel now came in, and though she manifested no particular
emotion, she was exceedingly kind to Nellie, asking
her many questions, and sometimes smoothing her
brown curls. When Mrs. Hudson again appeared, she
was very calm, but I noticed that her eyes constantly
rested upon Nellie, who, with Mabel's gray kitten in her
lap, was seated upon the door-step, the very image of
childish innocence and beauty. Mrs. Hudson urged us to
stay to tea, but I declined, knowing that there was
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company at home, with three kinds of cake, besides cookies,
for supper. So bidding her good-by, and promising to
come again, we started homeward, where we found the
ladies discussing their green tea and making large inroads
upon the three kinds of cake.
One of them, a Mrs. Thompson, was gifted with the art
of fortune-telling, by means of tea-grounds, and when
Nellie and I took our seats at the table, she kindly offered
to see what was in store for us. She had frequently told
my fortune, each time managing to fish up a freckle-faced
boy, so nearly resembling her grandson, my particular
aversion, that I did n't care to hear it again. But
with Nellie 't was all new, and after a great whirling of
tea grounds and staining of mother's best table-cloth, she
passed her cup to Mrs. Thompson, confidently whispering
to me that she guessed she'd tell her something about
Willie Raymond, who lived in the city, and who gave her
the little cornelian ring which she wore. With the utmost
gravity Mrs. Thompson read off the past and present,
and then peering far into the future, she suddenly
exclaimed, “Oh my! there's a gulf, or something, before
you, and you are going to tumble into it headlong; don't
ask me anything more.”
I never did and never shall believe in fortune-telling,
much less in Granny Thompson's “turned up cups,” but
years after, I thought of her prediction with regard to
Nellie. Poor, poor Nellie!
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CHAPTER IV. JEALOUSY.
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On the first Monday in June our school commenced,
and long before breakfast Lizzie and I were dressed, and
had turned inside out the little cupboard over the fire-place,
where our books were kept during vacation.
Breakfast being over, we deposited in our dinner-basket
the whole of a custard pie, and were about starting off,
when mother said “we should n't go a step until half past
eight,” adding further, that “we must put that pie back,
for 'twas one she'd saved for their own dinner.”
Lizzie pouted, while I cried, and taking my bonnet, I
repaired to the “great rock,” where the sassafras, blackberries,
and black snakes grew. Here I sat for a long
time, thinking if I ever did grow up and get married, (I
was sure of the latter,) I'd have all the custard pie I could
cat, for once! In the midst of my reverie a footstep
sounded near, and looking up I saw before me Nellie Gilbert,
with her satchel of books on her arm, and her sun-bonnet
hanging down her back, after the fashion in which
I usually wore mine. In reply to my look of inquiry, she
said her father had concluded to let her go to the district
school, though he didn't expect her to learn anything but
“slang terms and ill manners.”
By this time it was half past eight, and, together with
Lizzie, we repaired to the school-house, where we found
assembled a dozen girls and as many boys, among whom
was Tom Jenkins. Tom was a great admirer of beauty,
and hence I could never account for the preference he
had hitherto shown for me, whom my brothers called
“bung-eyed” and Sally “raw-boned.” He, however,
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didn't think so. My eyes, he said, were none too large,
and many a night had he carried home my books for me,
and many a morning had he brought me nuts and raisins,
to say nothing of the time when I found in my desk a little
note, which said —, but everybody who's been to
school, knows what it said!
Taking it all round, we were as good as engaged; so you
can judge what my feelings were when, before the night
of Nellie's first day at school, I saw Tom Jenkins giving
her an orange, which I had every reason to think was originally
intended for me! I knew very well that Nellie's
brown curls and eyes had done the mischief; and though
I did not love her the less, I blamed him the more for his
fickleness, for only a week before he had praised my eyes,
calling them a “beautiful indigo blue,” and all that. I
was highly incensed, and when on our way from school
he tried to speak good-humoredly, I said, “I'd thank you
to let me alone! I don't like you, and never did!”
He looked sorry for a minute, but soon forgot it all in
talking to Nellie, who, after he had left us, said “he was
a cleverish kind of boy, though he couldn't begin with
William Raymond.” After that I was very cool toward
Tom, who attached himself more and more to Nellie, saying
“she had the handsomest eyes he ever saw;” and,
indeed, I think it chiefly owing to those soft, brown,
dreamy eyes, that I am not now “Mrs. Tom Jenkins, of
Jenkinsville,” a place way out west, whither Tom and his
mother have migrated!
One day Nellie was later to school than usual, giving
as a reason that their folks had company — a Mr. Sherwood
and his mother, from Hartford; and adding, that
“if I'd never tell anybody as long as I lived and breathed,
she'd tell me something.”
Of course I promised, and then Nellie told me how she
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guessed that Mr. Sherwood, who was rich and handsome,
liked Adaline. “Any way, Adaline likes him,” said she;
“and oh, she 's so nice and good when he 's around. I
ain't `Nell, you hateful thing' then, but I'm `Sister Nellie.
' They are going to ride this morning, and perhaps
they'll go by here.—There they are, now!” and looking
toward the road, I saw Mr. Sherwood and Adaline Gilbert
on horseback, riding leisurely past the school-house. She
was nodding to Nellie, but he was looking intently at Mabel,
who was sitting near the window. I know he asked
Adaline something about her, for I distinctly heard a part
of her reply — “a poor factory-girl,” and Adaline's head
tossed scornfully, as if that were a sufficient reason why
Mabel should be despised.
Mr. Sherwood evidently did not think so, for the next
day he walked by alone,—and the next day he did the
same, this time bringing with him a book, and seating
himself in the shadow of a chestnut tree not far from the
school-house. The moment school was out, he arose and
came forward, inquiring for Nellie, who, of course, introduced
him to Mabel. The three then walked on together,
while Tom Jenkins staid in the rear with me, wondering
what I wanted to act so for; “couldn't a feller like more
than one girl if he wanted to?”
“Yes, I s'posed a feller could, though I didn't know,
nor care!”
Tom made no reply, but whittled away upon a bit of
shingle, which finally assumed the shape of a heart, and
which I afterward found in his desk with the letter “N”
written upon it, and then scratched out. When at last
we reached our house, Mr. Sherwood asked Nellie “where
that old mine and saw-mill were, of which she had told
him so much.”
“Right on Miss Hudson's way home,” said Nellie.
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“Let's walk along with her;” and the next moment Mr.
Sherwood, Mabel, and Nellie were in the long, green
lane which led down to the saw-mill.
Oh, how Adaline stormed when she heard of it, and
how sneeringly she spoke to Mr. Sherwood of the “factory
girl,” insinuating that the bloom on her cheek was
paint, and the lily on her brow powder! But he probably
did not believe it, for almost every day he passed
the school-house, generally managing to speak with Mabel;
and once he went all the way home with her, staying
ever so long, too, for I watched until 'twas pitch dark,
and he hadn't got back yet!
In a day or two he went home, and I thought no more
about him, until Tom, who had been to the post-office,
brought Mabel a letter, which made her turn red and
white alternately, until at last she cried. She was very
absent-minded the remainder of that day, letting us do as
we pleased, and never in my life did I have a better time
“carrying on” than I did that afternoon when Mabel received
her first letter from Mr. Sherwood.
CHAPTER V. NEW RELATIONS.
About six weeks after the close of Mabel's school, we
were one day startled with the intelligence that she was
going to be married, and to Mr. Sherwood, too. He had
become tired of the fashionable ladies of his acquaintance,
and when he saw how pure and artless Mabel was, he
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immediately became interested in her; and at last overcoming
all feelings of pride, he had offered her his hand, and
had been accepted. At first we could hardly credit the
story; but when Mrs. Hudson herself confirmed it, we
gave it up, and again I wondered if I should be invited.
All the nicest and best chestnuts which I could find, to
say nothing of the apples and butternuts, I carried to her,
not without my reward either, for when invitations came
to us, I was included with the rest. Our family were the
only invited guests, and I felt no fears, this time, of being
hidden by the crowd.
Just before the ceremony commenced, there was the
sound of a heavy footstep upon the outer porch, a loud
knock at the door, and then into the room came Mr. Gilbert!
He seemed slightly agitated, but not one-half so
much as Mrs. Hudson, who exclaimed, “William, my son,
why are you here?”
“I came to witness my sister's bridal,” was the
answer; and turning toward the clergyman, he said,
somewhat authoritatively, “Do not delay for me, sir.
Go on.”
There was a movement in the next room, and then the
bridal party entered, both starting with surprise as they
saw Mr. Gilbert. Very beautiful did Mabel look, as she
stood up to take upon herself the marriage vow, not a
syllable of which did one of us hear. We were thinking
of Mr. Gilbert, and the strange words, “my son” and “my
sister.”
When it was over, and Mabel was Mrs. Sherwood, Mr.
Gilbert approached Mrs. Hudson, saying, “Come, mother,
let me lead you to the bride.”
With an impatient gesture she waved him off, and going
alone to her daughter, threw her arms around her
neck, sobbing convulsively. There was an awkward
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silence, and then Mr. Gilbert, thinking he was called upon
for an explanation, arose, and addressing himself mostly
to Mr. Sherwood, said, “I suppose what has transpired
here to night seems rather strange, and will undoubtedly
furnish the neighborhood with gossip for more than a
week, but they are welcome to canvass whatever I do. I
can't help it if I was born with an unusual degree of pride;
neither can I help feeling mortified, as I many times did,
at my family, particularly after she,” glancing at his
mother, “married the man whose name she bears.”
Here Mrs. Hudson lifted up her head, and coming to
Mr. Gilbert's side, stood proudly erect, while he continued:
“She would tell you he was a good man, but I hated him,
and swore never to enter the house while he lived. I
went away, took care of myself, grew rich, married into
one of the first families in Hartford, and,— and —”
Here he paused, and his mother, continuing the sentence,
added, “and grew ashamed of your own mother,
who many a time went without the comforts of life that
you might be educated. You were always a proud, way-ward
boy, William, but never did I think you would do
as you have done. You have treated me with utter neglect,
never allowing your wife to see me, and when I once
proposed visiting you in Hartford, you asked your brother,
now dead, to dissuade me from it, if possible, for you
could not introduce me to your acquaintances as your
mother. Never do you speak of me to your children, who,
if they know they have a grandmother, little dream that
she lives within a mile of their father's dwelling. One of
them I have seen, and my heart yearned toward her as it
did toward you when first I took you in my arms, my
first-born baby; and yet, William, I thank heaven there
is in her sweet face no trace of her father's features. This
may sound harsh, unmotherly, but greatly have I been
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sinned against, and now, just as a brighter day is dawning
upon me, why have you come here! Say, William,
why?”
By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished, nearly all in the
room were weeping. Mr. Gilbert, however, seemed perfectly
indifferent, and with the most provoking coolness
replied, “I came to see my fair sister married—to congratulate
her upon an alliance which will bring us upon a
more equal footing.”
“You greatly mistake me, sir, “said Mr. Sherwood,
turning haughtily toward Mr. Gilbert, at the same time
drawing Mabel nearer to him; “you greatly mistake me,
if, after what I have heard, you think I would wish for
your acquaintance. If my wife, when poor and obscure,
was not worthy of your attention, you certainly are not
now worthy of hers, and it is my request that our intercourse
should end here.”
Mr. Gilbert muttered something about “extenuating
circumstances,” and “the whole not being told,” but no
one paid him any attention; and at last, snatching up his
hat, he precipitately left the house, I sending after him a
hearty good riddance, and mentally hoping he would
measure his length in the ditch which he must pass on his
way across hemlock swamp.
The next morning Mr. and Mrs. Sherwood departed on
their bridal tour, intending, on their return, to take their
mother with them to the city. Several times during their
absence I saw Mr. Gilbert, either going to or returning
from the “haunted house,” and I readily guessed he was
trying to talk his mother over, for nothing could be more
mortifying than to be cut by the Sherwoods, who were
among the first in Hartford. Afterward, greatly to my
satisfaction, I heard that though, mother-like, Mrs. Hudson
had forgiven her son, Mr. Sherwood ever treated him
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with a cool haughtiness, which effectually kept him at a
distance.
Once, indeed, at Mabel's earnest request, Mrs. Gilbert
and Nellie were invited to visit her, and as the former
was too feeble to accomplish the journey, Nellie went
alone, staying a long time, and torturing her sister on her
return with a glowing account of the elegantly furnished
house, of which Adaline had once hoped to be the proud
mistress.
For several years after Mabel's departure from Rice
Corner, nothing especial occurred in the Gilbert family,
except the marriage of Adaline with a rich bachelor, who
must have been many years older than her father, for he
colored his whiskers, wore false teeth and a wig, besides
having, as Nellie declared, a wooden leg! For the truth
of this last I will not vouch, as Nellie's assertion was only
founded upon the fact of her having once looked through
the keywhole of his door, and espied standing by his bed
something which looked like a cork leg, but which might
have been a boot! What Adaline saw in him to like, I
could never guess. I suppose, however, that she only
looked at his rich gilding, which covered a multitude of
defects.
Immediately after the wedding, the happy pair started
for a two years' tour in Europe, where the youthful bride
so enraged her bald-headed lord by flirting with a mustached
Frenchman, that in a fit of anger the old man
picked up his goods, chattels, and wife, and returned to
New York within three months of his leaving it!
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CHAPTER VI. POOR, POOR NELLIE.
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And now, in the closing chapter of this brief sketch of
the Gilberts, I come to the saddest part, the fate of poor
Nellie, the dearest playmate my childhood ever knew;
she whom the lapse of years ripened into a graceful, beautiful
girl, loved by everybody, even by Tom Jenkins,
whose boyish affection had grown with his growth and
strengthened with his strength.
And now Nellie was the affianced bride of William
Raymond, who had replaced the little cornelian with
the engagement ring. At last the rumor reached Tom
Jenkins, awaking him from the sweetest dream he had
ever known. He could not ask Nellie if it were true,
so he came to me; and when I saw how he grew pale and
trembled, I felt that Nellie was not altogether blameless.
But he breathed no word of censure against her; and
when, a year or two afterward, I saw her given to William
Raymond, I knew that the love of two hearts was
hers; the one to cherish and watch over her, the other to
love and worship, silently, secretly, as a miser worships
his hidden treasure.
The bridal was over. The farewells were over, and
Nellie had gone,— gone from the home whose sunlight
she had made, and which she had left forever. Sadly the
pale, sick mother wept, and mourned her absence, listening
in vain for the light foot-fall and soft, ringing voice she
would never hear again.
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Three weeks had passed away, and then, far and near,
the papers teemed with accounts of the horrible Norwalk
catastrophe, which desolated many a home, and wrung
from many a heart its choicest treasure. Side by side they
found them—Nellie and her husband—the light of her
brown eyes quenched forever, and the pulses of his heart
still in death!
I was present when they told the poor invalid of her
loss, and even now I seem to hear the bitter, wailing cry
which broke from her white lips, as she begged them “to
unsay what they had said; and tell her Nellie was not
dead—that she would come back again.”
It could not be. Nellie would never return; and in six
week's time the broken-hearted mother was at rest with
her child.
-- -- p598-186
The Thanksgiving Party, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
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CHAPTER I. NIGHT BEFORE THANKSGIVING.
“Oh, I do hope it will be pleasant to-morrow,” said
Lizzie Dayton, as on the night before Thanksgiving she
stood at the parlor window, watching a dense mass of
clouds, behind which the sun had lately gone to his nightly
rest.
“I hope so, too, said Lucy, coming forward, and joining
her sister; but then it is n't likely it will be. There has
been a big circle around the moon these three nights,
and, besides that, I never knew it fail to storm when I
was particularly anxious that it should be pleasant;” and
the indignant beauty pouted very becomingly at the insult
so frequently offered by that most capricious of all
things, the weather.
“Thee should n't talk so, Lucy,” said Grandma Dayton,
who was of Quaker descent, at the same time holding
up between herself and the window the long stocking
which she was knitting. “Does n't thee know that when
thee is finding fault with the weather, thee finds fault
with Him who made the weather?”
“I do wish, grandma, answered Lucy, “that I could
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ever say anything which did not furnish you with a text
from which to preach me a sermon.”
Grandma did not reply directly to this rather uncivil
speech, but she continued: “I do n't see how the weather
will hurt thee, if it's the party thee is thinking of, for Mr.
Graham's is only ten rods or so from here.”
“I'm not afraid I can't go,” answered Lucy; “but you
know as well as I, that if the wind blows enough to put
out a candle, father is so old-maidish as to think Lizzie
and I must wear thick stockings and dresses, and I
should n't wonder if he insisted on flannel wrappers!”
“Well,” answered grandma, “I think myself it will be
very imprudent for Lizzie, in her present state of health,
to expose her neck and arms. Thy poor marm died with
consumption when she was n't much older than thee is.
Let me see,—she was twenty-three the day she died, and
thee was twenty-two in Sep—”
“For heaven's sake, grandmother,” interrupted Lucy,
“don't continually remind me of my age, and tell me how
much younger mother was when she was married. I can't
help it if I am twenty-two, and not married or engaged
either. But I will be both, before I am a year older.”
So saying, she quitted the apartment, and repaired to
her own room.
Ere we follow her thither, we will introduce both her
and her sister to our readers. Lucy and Lizzie were the
only children of Mr. Dayton, a wealthy, intelligent, and
naturally social man, the early death of whose idolized,
beautiful wife had thrown a deep gloom over his spirits,
which time could never entirely dispel. It was now seventeen
years since, a lonely, desolate widower, at the
dusky twilight hour he had drawn closely to his bosom
his motherless children, and thought that but for them he
would gladly have lain down by her whose home was
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now in heaven. His acquaintances spoke lightly of his
grief, saying he would soon get over it and marry again.
They were mistaken, for he remained single, his widowed
mother supplying to his daughters the place of their lost
parent.
In one thing was Mr. Dayton rather peculiar. Owing
to the death of his wife, he had always been in the habit
of dictating to his daughters in various small matters,
such as dress, and so forth, about which fathers seldom
trouble themselves. And even now he seemed to forget
that they were children no longer, and often interfered in
their plans in a way exceedingly annoying to Lucy, the
eldest of the girls, who was now twenty-two, and was as
proud, selfish, and self-willed as she was handsome and
accomplished. Old maids she held in great abhorrence,
and her great object in life was to secure a wealthy and
distinguished husband. Hitherto she had been unsuccessful,
for the right one had not yet appeared. Now, however,
a new star was dawning on her horizon, in the person
of Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans. His fame had
preceded him, and half the village of S— were ready
to do homage to the proud millionaire, who would make
his first appearance at the thanksgiving party. This, then,
was the reason why Lucy felt so anxious to be becomingly
dressed, for she had resolved upon a conquest, and
she felt sure of success. She knew she was beautiful.
Her companions told her so, her mirror told her so, and
her sweet sister Lizzie told her so, more than twenty
times a day.
Lizzie was four years younger than her sister, and
wholly unlike her, both in personal appearance and disposition.
She had from childhood evinced a predisposition
to the disease which had consigned her mother to an early
grave. On her fair, soft cheek the rose of health had
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never bloomed, and in the light which shone from her
clear hazel eye, her fond father read, but too clearly,
“passing away,—passing away.”
If there was in Lucy Dayton's selfish nature any redeeming
quality, it was that she possessed for her frail
young sister a love amounting almost to adoration.
Years before, she had trembled as she thought how
soon the time might come when for her sister's merry
voice she would listen in vain; but as month after month
and year after year went by, and still among them Lizzie
staid, Lucy forgot her fears, and dreamed not that ere
long one chair would be vacant,—that Lizzie would be
gone.
Although so much younger than her sister, Lizzie, for
more than a year, had been betrothed to Harry Graham,
whom she had known from childhood. Now, between
herself and him the broad Atlantic rolled, nor would he
return until the coming autumn, when, with her father's
consent, Lizzie would be all his own.
Alas! alas! ere autumn came
How many hearts were weeping,
For her, who 'neath the willow's shade,
Lay sweetly, calmly sleeping.
CHAPTER II. THANKSGIVING DAY.
Slowly the feeble light of a stormy morning broke
over the village of S—. Lucy's fears had been verified,
for Thanksgiving's dawn was ushered in by a fierce
driving storm. Thickly from the blackened clouds the
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feathery flakes had fallen, until the earth, far and near,
was covered by an unbroken mass of white, untrodden
snow.
Lucy had been awake for a long time, listening to the
sad song of the wind, which swept howling by the casement.
At length, with an impatient frown at the snow,
which covered the window-pane, she turned on her pillow,
and tried again to sleep. Her slumbers, however,
were soon disturbed by her sister, who arose, and putting
aside the curtain, looked out upon the storm, saying, half
aloud, “Oh, I am sorry, for Lucy will be disappointed.”
“I disappointed!” repeated Lucy; “now, Lizzie, why
not own it, and say you are as much provoked at the
weather as I am, and wish this horrid storm had staid in
the icy caves of Greenland?”
“Because,” answered Lizzie, “I really care but little
about the party. You know Harry will not be there,
and besides that, the old, ugly pain has come back to
my side this morning;” and even as she spoke, a low,
hacking cough fell on Lucy's ear like the echo of a distant
knell.
Lucy raised herself up, and leaning on her elbow looked
earnestly at her sister, and fancied, ('twas not all fancy,)
that her cheeks had grown thinner and her brow whiter
within a few weeks. Lizzie proceeded with her toilet,
although she was twice obliged to stop on account of “the
ugly pain,” as she called it.
“Hurry, sister,” said Lucy, “and you will feel better
when you get to the warm parlor.”
Lizzie thought so, too, and she accelerated her movements
as much as possible. Just as she was leaving the
room, Lucy detained her a moment by passing her arm
caressingly around her. Lizzie well knew that some
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favor was wanted, and she said, “Well, what is it, Lucy?
What do you wish me to give you?”
“Nothing, nothing,” answered Lucy, “but do not say
anything to father about the pain in your side, for fear
he will keep you at home, and, worse than all, make me
stay, too.”
Lizzie gave the required promise, and then descended
to the breakfast parlor, where she found her grandmother,
and was soon joined by her sister and father. After the
usual salutation of the morning, the latter said, “There
is every prospect of our being alone to-day, for the snow
is at least a foot and a half deep, and is drifting every
moment.”
“But, father,” said Lucy, “that will not prevent Lizzie
and me from going to the party to-night.”
“You mean, if I choose to let you go, of course,” answered
Mr. Dayton.
“Why,” quickly returned Lucy, “you cannot think of
keeping us at home. It is only distant a few rods, and
we will wrap up well.”
“I have no objections to your going,” replied Mr.
Dayton, “provided you dress suitably for such a night.”
“Oh, father,” said Lucy, “you cannot be capricious
enough to wish us to be bundled up in bags.”
“I care but little what dress you wear,” answered Mr.
Dayton, “if it has what I consider necessary appendages,
viz: sleeves and waist.”
The tears glittered in Lucy's bright eyes, as she said,
“Our party dresses are at Miss Carson's, and she is to
send them home this morning.”
“Wear them, then,” answered Mr. Dayton, “provided
they possess the qualities I spoke of, for without those
you cannot go out on such a night as this will be.”
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Lucy knew that her dress was minus the sleeves, and
that her father would consider the waist a mere apology
for one, so she burst into tears and said, rather angrily,
“I had rather stay at home than go rigged out as you
would like to have me.”
“Very well; you can stay at home,” was Mr. Dayton's
quiet reply.
In a few moments he left the room, and then Lucy's
wrath burst forth unrestrainedly. She called her father
all sorts of names, such as “an old granny,—an old fidget,”
and finished up her list with what she thought the
most odious appellation of all, “an old maid.”
In the midst of her tirade the door bell rang. It was
the boy from Miss Carson's, and he brought the party
dresses. Lucy's thoughts now took another channel, and
while admiring her beautiful embroidered muslin and rich
white satin skirt, she forgot that she could not wear it.
Grandma was certainly unfortunate in her choice of
words, this morning, for when Lucy for the twentieth
time asked if her dress were not a perfect beauty, the
old Quakeress answered, “why it looks very decent,
but it can do thee no good, for thy pa has said thee cannot
wear it; besides, the holy writ reads, `Let your
adorning —”'
Here Lucy stopped her ears, exclaiming, “I do believe,
grandma, you were manufactured from a chapter in the
bible, for you throw your holy writ into my face on all
occasions.”
The good lady adjusted her spectacles, and replied,
“How thee talks! I never thought of throwing my bible
at thee, Lucy!”
Grandma had understood her literally.
Nothing more was said of the party, until dinner time,
although there was a determined look in Lucy's flashing
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eye, which puzzled Lizzie not a little. Owing to the
storm, Mr. Dayton's country cousins did not, as was their
usual custom, come into town to dine with him, and for
this Lucy was thankful, for she thought nothing could be
more disagreeable than to be compelled to sit all day and
ask Cousin Peter how much his fatting hogs weighed;
or his wife, Elizabeth Betsey, how many teeth the baby
had got; or, worse than all the rest, if the old maid,
Cousin Berintha, were present, to be obliged to be asked
at least three times, whether it's twenty-four or twenty-five
she'd be next September, and on saying it was only
twenty-three, have her word disputed and the family bible
brought in question. Even then Miss Berintha would
demur, until she had taken the bible to the window, and
squinted to see if the year had not been scratched out
and rewritten! Then closing the book with a profound
sigh, she would say, “I never, now! it beats all how
much older you look!”
All these annoyances Lucy was spared on this day, for
neither Cousin Peter, Elizabeth Betsey, or Miss Berintha
made their appearance. At the dinner table, Mr. Dayton
remarked, quietly, to his daughters, “I believe you
have given up attending the party!”
“Oh, no, father,” said Lucy, “we are going, Lizzie
and I.”
“And what about your dress?” sasked Mr. Dayton.
Lucy bit her lip as she replied, “Why, of course, we
must dress to suit you, or stay at home.'
Lizzie looked quickly at her sister, as if asking how
long since she had come to this conclusion; but Lucy's
face was calm and unruffled, betraying no secrets, although
her tongue did when, after dinner, she found herself
alone with Lizzie in their dressing-room. A long conversation
followed, in which Lucy seemed trying to
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persuade Lizzie to do something wrong. Possessed of the
stronger mind, Lucy's influence over her sister was great,
and sometimes a bad one, but never before had she proposed
an open act of disobedience toward their father,
and Lizzie constantly replied, “No, no, Lucy, I can't do
it; besides, I really think I ought not to go, for that pain
in my side is no better.”
“Nonsense, Lizzie,” said Lucy. “If you are going to
be as whimsical as Miss Berintha, you had better begin
at once to dose yourself with burdock or catnip tea.”
Then, again recurring to the dress, she continued, “Father
did not say we must not wear them after we got
there. I shall take mine, any way, and I wish you would
do the same; and then, if he ever knows it, he will not
be as much displeased when he finds that you, too, are
guilty.”
After a time, Lizzie was persuaded, but her happiness
for that day was destroyed, and when at tea time her father
asked if she felt quite well, she could scarcely keep
from bursting into tears. Lucy, however, came to her
relief, and said she was feeling blue because Harry would
not be present! Just before the hour for the party, Lucy
descended to the parlor, where her father was reading, in
order, as she said, to let him see whether her dress were
fussy enough to suit him. He approved her taste, and
after asking if Lizzie, too, were dressed in the same manner,
resumed his paper. Ere long, the covered sleigh
stood at the door, and in a few moments Lucy and Lizzie
were in Anna Graham's dressing-room, undergoing the
process of a second toilet.
Nothing could be more beautiful than was Lucy Dayton,
after party dress, bracelets, curls, and flowers had all
been adjusted. She probably thought so, too, for a smile
of satisfaction curled her lip as she saw the radiant vision
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reflected by the mirror. Her bright eye flashed, and her
heart swelled with pride as she thought, “Yes, there 's
no help for it, I shall win him, sure;” then turning to
Anna Graham, she asked, “Is that Mr. St. Leon to be
here to-night?”
“Yes, you know he is,” answered Anna, “and I pity
him, for I see you are all equipped for an attack; but,”
continued she, glancing at Lizzie, “were not little Lizzie's
heart so hedged up by brother Hal, I should say your
chance was small.”
Lucy looked at her sister, and a chill struck her heart
as she observed a spasm of pain which for an instant contracted
Lizzie's fair, sweet face. Anna noticed it, too,
and springing toward her, said, “What is it, Lizzie? are
you ill?”
“No,” answered Lizzie, laying her hand on her side;
“nothing but a sharp pain. It will soon be better;”
but while she spoke, her teeth almost chattered with the
cold.
Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie!
For a short time, now, we will leave the young ladies in
Miss Graham's dressing-room, and transport our readers
to another part of the village.
CHAPTER III. ADA HARCOURT.
In a small and neat, but scantily furnished chamber, a
poor widow was preparing her only child, Ada, for the
party. The plain, white muslin dress of two years old
had been washed and ironed so carefully, that Ada said
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it looked just as well as new; but then everything looked
well on Ada Harcourt, who was highly gifted, both with
intellect and beauty. After her dress was arranged, she
went to the table for her old white gloves, the cleaning
of which had cost her much trouble, for her mother did
not seem to be at all interested in them, so Ada did as
well as she could. As she was about to put them on, her
mother returned from a drawer, into the recesses of which
she had been diving, and from which she brought a paper,
carefully folded.
“Here, Ada,” said she, “you need not wear those
gloves; see here—” and she held up a pair of handsome
mitts a fine linen handkerchief, and a neat little gold pin.
“Oh, mother, mother!” said Ada, joyfully, “where
did you get them?”
“I know,” answered Mrs. Harcourt, “and that is
enough.”
After a moment's thought, Ada knew, too. The little
hoard of money her mother had laid by for a warm winter
shawl, had been spent for her. From Ada's lustrous
blue eyes the tears were dropping, as, twining her arm
around her mother's neck, she said, “Naughty, naughty
mother!” but there was a knock at the door. The
sleigh which Anna Graham had promised to send for
Ada, had come; so dashing away her tears, and adjusting
her new mitts and pin, she was soon warmly wrapped
up, and on her way to Mr. Graham's.
“In the name of the people, who is that?” said Lucy
Dayton, as Anna Graham entered the dressing-room, accompanied
by a bundle of something securely shielded
from the cold.
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The removal of the hood soon showed Lucy who it was,
and, with an exclamation of surprise, she turned inquiringly
to a young lady who was standing near. To her
look, the young lady replied, “A freak of Anna's I suppose.
She thinks a great deal of those Harcourts.”
An impatient “pshaw!” burst from Lucy lips, accompanied
with the words, “I wonder who she thinks wants
to associate with that plebeian!”
The words, the look, and the tone caught Ada's eye
and ear, and instantly blighted her happiness. In the
joy and surprise of receiving an invitation to the party,
it had never occurred to her that she might be slighted
there, and she was not prepared for Lucy's unkind remark.
For an instant the tears moistened her long silken
eyelashes, and a deeper glow mantled her usually bright
cheek; but this only increased her beauty, which tended
to increase Lucy's vexation. Lucy knew that in her own
circle there was none to dispute her claim; but she knew,
too, that in a low-roofed house, in the outskirts of the
town, there dwelt a poor sewing woman, whose only
daughter was famed for her wondrous beauty. Lucy had
frequently seen Ada in the streets, but never before had
she met her, and she now determined to treat her with
the utmost disdain.
Not so was Lizzie affected by the presence of “the plebeian.”
Mrs. Harcourt had done plain sewing for her
father, and Lizzie had frequently called there for the work.
In this way an acquaintance had been commenced between
herself and Ada, which had ripened into friendship.
Lizzie, too, had heard the remark of her sister, and, anxious
to atone, as far as possible, for the unkindness, she
went up to Ada, expressed her pleasure at seeing her
there, and then, as the young ladies were about descending
to the parlors, she offered her arm, saying, “I will
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accompany you down, but I have no doubt scores of beaux
will quickly take you off my hands.”
The parlors were nearly filled when our party reached
them, and Ada, half tremblingly, clung to Lizzie's arm,
while, with queen-like grace and dignity, Lucy Dayton
moved through the crowded drawing-rooms. Her quick
eye had scanned each gentleman, but her search was fruitless.
He was not there, and during the next half hour
she listened rather impatiently to the tide of flattery
poured into her ear by some one of her admirers. Suddenly
there was a stir at the door, and Mr. St. Leon was
announced. He was a tall, fine looking man, probably
about twenty-five years of age. The expression of his
face was remarkably pleasing, and such as would lead an
entire stranger to trust him, sure that his confidence
would not be misplaced. His manners were highly polished,
and in his dignified, self-possessed bearing, there
was something which some called pride, but in all the
wide world there was not a more generous heart than
that of Hugh St. Leon.
Lucy for a moment watched him narrowly, and then
her feelings became perfectly calm, for she felt sure that
now, for the first time, she looked upon her future husband!
Ere long, Anna Graham approached, accompanied
by the gentleman, whom she introduced, and then
turning, left them alone. Lucy would have given almost
anything to have known whether St. Leon had requested
an introduction, but no means of information were at
hand, so she bent all her energies to be as agreeable as
possible to the handsome stranger at her side, who each
moment seemed more and more pleased with her.
Meantime, in another part of the room Lizzie and Ada
were the center of attraction. The same kindness which
prompted Anna Graham to invite Ada, was careful to see
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that she did not feel neglected. For this purpose, Anna's
brother, Charlie, a youth of sixteen, had been instructed
to pay her particular attention. This he was not unwilling
to do, for he knew no reason why she should not be
treated politely, even if she were a sewing woman's daughter.
Others of the company, observing how attentive
Charlie and Lizzie were to the beautiful girl, felt disposed
to treat her graciously, so that to her the evening was
passing very happily.
When St. Leon entered the room, the hum of voices
prevented Ada from hearing his name; neither was she
aware of his presence until he had been full fifteen minutes
conversing with Lucy. Then her attention was directed
toward him by Lizzie. For a moment, Ada gazed
as if spell-bound; then a dizziness crept over her, and she
nervously grasped the little plain gold ring which encircled
the third finger of her left hand!
Turning to Lizzie, who, fortunately, had not noticed
her agitation, she said, “What did you say his name
was?”
“St. Leon, from New Orleans,” replied Lizzie.
“Then I'm not mistaken,” Ada said, inaudibly.
At that moment Anna Graham approached, and whispered
something to Ada, who gave a startled look, saying,
“Oh, no, Miss Anna; you would not have me make
myself ridiculous.”
“Certainly not,” answered Anna; “neither will you do
so, for some of your songs you sing most beautifully. Do
come; I wish to surprise my friends.”
Ada consented rather unwillingly, and Anna led her
toward the music-room, followed by a dozen or more, all
of whom wondered what a sewing woman's daughter
knew about music. On their way to the piano, they
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passed near St. Leon and Lucy, the former of whom
started as his eye fell upon Ada.
“I did not think there was another such face in the
world,” said he, apparently to himself; then turning to
Lucy, he asked who that beautiful girl was.
“Which one?” asked Lucy; “there are many beauties
here to-night.”
“I mean the one with the white muslin, and dark auburn
curls,” said St. Leon.
Lucy's brow darkened, but she answered, “That?
oh, that is Ada Harcourt. Her mother is a poor sewing
woman. I never met Ada before, and cannot conceive
how she came to be here; but then the Grahams are peculiar
in their notions, and I suppose it was a whim of
Anna's.”
Without knowing it, St. Leon had advanced some steps
toward the door through which Ada had disappeared.
Lucy followed him, vexed beyond measure, that the despised
Ada Harcourt should even have attracted his attention.
“Is she as accomplished as handsome?” asked he.
“Why, of course not,” answered Lucy, with a forced
laugh. “Poverty, ignorance, and vulgarity go together,
usually, I believe.”
St. Leon gave her a rapid, searching glance, in which
disappointment was mingled, but before he could reply,
there was the sound of music. It was a sweet, bird-like
voice which floated through the rooms, and the song it
sang was a favorite one of St. Leon's, who was passionately
fond of music.
“Let us go nearer,” said he to Lucy, who, nothing
loth, accompanied him, for she, too, was anxious to
know who it was that thus chained each listener into
silence.
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St. Leon at length got a sight of the singer, and said,
with evident pleasure, “Why, it's Miss Harcourt!”
“Miss Harcourt! Ada Harcourt!” exclaimed Lucy.
“Impossible! Why, her mother daily toils for the bread
they eat!”
But if St. Leon heard her, he answered not. His
senses were locked in those strains of music which recalled
memories of something, he scarcely knew what,
and Lucy found herself standing alone, her heart swelling
with anger toward Ada, who from that time was her
hated rival. The music ceased, but scores of voices were
loud in their call for another song; and again Ada sang,
but this time there were in the tones of her voice a thrilling
power, for which those who listened could not account.
To Ada, the atmosphere about her seemed
changed, and though she never for a moment raised her
eyes, she well knew who it was that leaned upon the piano,
and looked intently upon her. Again the song was
finished, and then, at St. Leon's request, he was introduced
to the singer, who returned his salutation with perfect
self-possession, although her heart beat quickly, as
she hoped, yet half feared, that he would recognize her.
But he did not, and as they passed together into the next
room, he wondered much why the hand which lay upon
his arm trembled so violently, while Ada said to herself,
“'Tis not strange he does n't know me by this name.”
Whether St. Leon knew her or not, there seemed about
her some strong attraction, which kept him at her side
the remainder of the evening, greatly to Lucy Dayton's
mortification and displeasure.
“I'll be revenged on her yet,” she muttered. “The
upstart! I wonder where she learned to play.”
This last sentence was said aloud; and Lizzie, who was
standing near, replied, “Her father was once wealthy,
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and Ada had the best of teachers. Since she has lived in
S—, she has occasionally practiced on Anna's piano.”
“I think I'd keep a piano for paupers to play on, “was
Lucy's contemptuous reply, uttered with no small degree
of bitterness, for at that moment St. Leon approached her
with the object of her dislike leaning upon his arm.
Ada introduced Lizzie to St. Leon, who offered her his
other arm, and the three kept together until Lizzie, uttering
a low, sharp cry of pain, leaned heavily as if for support
against St. Leon. In an instant Lucy was at her side;
but to all her anxious inquiries Lizzie could only reply, as
she clasped her thin, white hand over her side, “The
pain, — the pain, — take me home.”
“Our sleigh has not yet come,” said Lucy. “Oh, what
shall we do?”
“Mine is here, and at your command, Miss Dayton,”
said St. Leon.
Lucy thanked him, and then proceeded to prepare Lizzie,
who, chilled through and through by the exposure of
her chest and arms, had borne the racking pain in her
side as long as possible, and now lay upon the sofa as
helpless as an infant. When all was ready St. Leon lifted
her in his arms, and bearing her to the sleigh, stepped
lightly in with her, and took his seat.
“It is hardly necessary for you to accompany us home,”
said Lucy, overjoyed beyond measure, though, to find
that he was going.
“Allow me to be the judge,” answered St. Leon; and
other than that, not a word was spoken until they reached
Mr. Dayton's door. Then, carefully carrying Lizzie into
the house, he was about to leave, when Lucy detained
him to thank him for his kindness, adding that she hoped
to see him again.
“Certainly, I shall call to-morrow,” was his reply, as
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he sprang down the steps, and entering his sleigh, was
driven back to Mr. Graham's.
He found the company about dispersing, and meeting
Ada in the hall, asked to accompany her home. Ada's
pride for a moment hesitated, and then she answered in
the affirmative. When St. Leon had seated her in his
sleigh, he turned back, on pretext of looking for something,
but in reality to ask Anna Graham where Ada
lived, as he did not wish to question her on the subject.
When they were nearly home, St. Leon said, “Miss
Harcourt, have you always lived in S —?”
“We have lived here but two years,” answered Ada;
and St. Leon continued: “I cannot rid myself of the impression
that somewhere I have met you before.”
“Indeed,” said Ada, “when, and where?”
But his reply was prevented by the sleigh's stopping at
Mrs. Harcourt's door. As St. Leon bade Ada good night,
he whispered, “I shall see you again.”
Ada made no answer, but going into the house where
her mother was waiting for her, she exclaimed, “Oh,
mother, mother, I've seen him! — he was there! — he
brought me home!”
“Seen whom?” asked Mrs. Harcourt, alarmed at her
daughter's agitation.
“Why, Hugh St. Leon!” replied Ada.
“St. Leon in town!” repeated Mrs. Harcourt, her eye
lighting up with joy.
'Twas only for a moment, however, for the remembrance
of what she was when she knew St. Leon, and what she
now was, recurred to her, and she said calmly, “I thought
you had forgotten that childish fancy.
“Forgotten!” said Ada bitterly; and then as she recalled
the unkind remark of Lucy Dayton, she burst into
a passionate fit of weeping.
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After a time, Mrs. Harcourt succeeded in soothing her,
and then drew from her all the particulars of the party,
St. Leon and all. When Ada had finished, her mother
kissed her fair cheek, saying, “I fancy St. Leon thinks as
much of little Ada now as he did six years ago;” but Ada
could not think so, though that night, in dreams, she was
again happy in her old home in the distant city, while at
her side was St. Leon, who even then was dreaming of
a childish face which had haunted him six long years.
CHAPTER IV. LUCY.
We left Lizzie lying upon the sofa, where St. Leon had
laid her. After he was gone, Lucy proposed calling their
father and sending for a physician, but Lizzie objected,
saying she should be better when she got warm. During
the remainder of that night, Lucy sat by her sister's bedside,
while each cry of pain which came from Lizzie's lips
fell heavily upon her heart, for conscience accused her of
being the cause of all this suffering. At length the weary
night watches were finished, but the morning light showed
more distinctly Lizzie's white brow and burning cheeks.
She had taken a severe cold, which had settled upon her
lungs, and now she was paying the penalty of her first act
of disobedience.
Mr. Dayton had sent for the old family physician, who
understood Lizzie's constitution perfectly. He shook his
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head as he said, “How came she by such a cold? Did
she go the party?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Mr. Dayton.
“And not half dressed, I'll warrant,” said the gruff old
doctor.
Lucy turned pale as her father answered, quickly and
truthfully, as he thought, “No, sir, she was properly
dressed.”
Lizzie heard it, and though speaking was painful, she
said, “Forgive me, father, forgive me; I disobeyed you.
I wore the dress you said I must not wear!”
An exclamation of surprise escaped Mr. Dayton, who,
glancing at Lucy, read in her guilty face what Lizzie generously
would not betray.
“Oh, Lucy, Lucy,” said he, “how could you do so?”
Lucy could only reply through her tears. She was sincerely
sorry that by her means Lizzie had been brought
into danger; but when the doctor said that by careful
management she might soon be better, all feelings of
regret vanished, and she again began to think of St. Leon
and his promise to call. A look at herself in the mirror
showed her that she was looking pale and jaded, and she
half hoped he would not come. However, as the day
wore on, she grew nervous as she thought he possibly
might be spending his time with the hated Ada. But he
was not, and at about four o'clock there was a ring at the
door. From an upper window Lucy saw St. Leon, and
when Bridget came up for her, she asked if the parlor was
well darkened.
“An' sure it's darker nor a pocket,” said Bridget,” “an'
he couldn't see a haporth was ye twice as sorry lookin'.”
So bathing her face in cologne, in order to force a glow,
Lucy descended to the parlor, which she found to be as
dark as Bridget had said it was. St. Leon received her
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very kindly, for the devotion she had the night before
shown for her sister, had partially counterbalanced the
spitefulness he had observed in her manner when speaking
of Ada at the party. Notwithstanding Bridget's precautions,
he saw, too, that she was pale and spiritless, but he
attributed it to her anxiety for her sister, and this raised
her in his estimation. Lucy divined his thoughts, and in
her efforts to appear amiable and agreeable, a half hour
passed quickly away. At the end of that time she unfortunately
asked, in a very sneering tone, “how long since
he had seen the sewing girl?”
“If you mean Miss Harcourt,” said St. Leon, coolly,
“I've not seen her since I left her last night at her mother's
door.”
“You must have been in danger of upsetting if you attempted
to turn round in Mrs. Harcourt's spacious yard,”
was Lucy's next remark.
“I did not attempt it,” said St. Leon. “I carried Miss
Ada in my arms from the street to the door.”
The tone and manner were changed. Lucy knew it,
and it exasperated her to say something more, but she
was prevented by St. Leon's rising to go. As Lucy accompanied
him to the door, she asked “how long he intended
to remain in S —.”
“I leave this evening, in the cars for New Haven,”
said he.
“This evening?” repeated Lucy in a disappointed tone,
“and will you not return?”
“Yes, if the business on which I go is successful,” answered
St. Leon.
“A lady in question, perchance,” remarked Lucy playfully.
“You interpret the truth accurately,” said St. Leon,
and with a cold, polite bow, he was gone.
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“Why was he going to New Haven?” This was the
thought which now tortured Lucy. He had confessed
that a lady was concerned in his going, but who was she,
and what was she to him? Any way, there was a comfort
in knowing that Ada Harcourt had nothing to do
with it!
Mistaken Lucy! Ada Harcourt had everything to do
with it!
CHAPTER V. UNCLE ISRAEL.
The lamps were lighted in the cars, and on through the
valley of the Connecticut, the New Haven train was
speeding its way. In one corner of the car sat St. Leon,
closely wrapped in cloak and thoughts, the latter of which
occasionally suggested to him the possibility that his was
a Tomfool's errand; “but then,” thought he, “no one
will know it if I fail, and if I do not, it is worth the
trouble.”
When the train reached Hartford, a number of passengers
entered, all bound for New Haven. Among them
was a comical-looking, middle aged man, whom St. Leon
instantly recognized as a person whom he had known
when in college, in New Haven, and whom the students
familiarly called “Uncle Israel.” The recognition was
mutual, for Uncle Israel prided himself on never forgetting
a person he had once seen. In a few moments St.
Leon was overwhelming him with scores of questions, but
Uncle Israel was a genuine Yankee, and never felt happier
than when engaged in giving or guessing information.
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At length St. Leon asked, “Does Ada Linwood fulfill
the promise of beauty which she gave as a child?”
“Ada who?” said Uncle Israel.
“Linwood,” repeated St. Leon, arguing from the jog
in Uncle Israel's memory that all was not right.
“Do you mean the daughter of Harcourt Linwood, he
that was said to be so rich?”
“The same,” returned St. Leon. “Where are they?”
Uncle Israel settled himself with the air of a man who
has a long story on hand, and intends to tell it at his leisure.
Filling his mouth with an enormous quid of tobacco,
he commenced: “Better than four years ago Linwood
smashed up, smack and clean; lost everything he had,
and the rest had to be sold at vandue. But what was
worse than all, seein' he was a fine feller in the main, and
I guess didn't mean to fail, he took sick, and in about a
month died.”
“And what became of his widow and orphan?” asked
St. Leon, eagerly.
“Why, it wasn't nateral,” said Uncle Israel, “that they
should keep the same company they did before, and they's
too plaguy stuck up to keep any other; so they moved
out of town and supported themselves by takin' in sewin'
or ironin', I forgot which.”
“But where are they now?” asked St. Leon.
Uncle Israel looked at him for a moment, and then replied,
“The Lord knows, I suppose, but Israel don't.”
“Did they suffer at all?” asked St. Leon.
“Not as long as I stuck to them, but they sarved me
real mean,” answered Uncle Israel.
“In what way?”
“Why, you see,” said Uncle Israel, “I don't know why,
but somehow I never thought of matrimony till I got a
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glimpse of Ada at her father's vandue. To be sure, I'd
seen her before, but then she was mighty big feelin', and
I couldn't ha' touched her with a hoe-handle, but now
't was different. I bought their house. I was rich and
they was poor.”
Involuntarily St. Leon clenched his fist, as Uncle Israel
continued: “I seen to getting them a place in the country,
and then tended to 'em generally for more than six
months, when I one day hinted to Mrs. Linwood that I
would like to be her son-in-law. Christopher! how quick
her back was up, and she gave me to understand that I
was lookin' too high! 'Twas no go with Ada, and after
a while I proposed to the mother. Then you ought to
seen her! She didn't exactly turn me out o'door, but she
coolly told me I wasn't wanted there. But I stuck to
her, and kept kind o' offerin' myself, till at last they cut
stick and cleared out, and I couldn't find them, high nor
low. I hunted for more than a year, and at last found
them in Hartford. Thinkin' may be, they had come to, I
proposed again, and kept hangin' on till they gave me the
slip again; and now I don't know where they be, but I
guess they've changed their name.”
At this point, the cars stopped, until the upward train
should pass them, and St. Leon, rising, bade his companion
good evening, saying “he had changed his mind, and
should return to Hartford on the other train.”
-- 205 -- p598-210
CHAPTER VI. EXPLANATION.
[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
Six years prior to the commencement of our story, New
Haven boasted not a better or wealthier citizen than Harcourt
Linwood, of whose subsequent failure and death we
have heard from Uncle Israel. The great beauty of his
only child, Ada, then a girl of nearly thirteen, was the
subject of frequent comment among the circle in which he
moved. No pains were spared with her education, and
many were the conjectures as to what she would be when
time had matured her mind and beauty.
Hugh St. Leon, of New Orleans, then nineteen years
of age, and a student at Yale, had frequently met Ada at
the house of his sister, Mrs. Durant, whose eldest daughter,
Jenny, was about her own age. The uncommon
beauty of the child greatly interested the young southerner,
and once, in speaking of his future prospects to his
sister, he playfully remarked, “Suppose I wait for Ada
Linwood.”
“You cannot do better,” was the reply, and the conversation
terminated.
The next evening there was to be a child's party at the
house of Mrs Durant, and as Hugh was leaving the house,
Jenny bounded after him, saying, “Oh, Uncle Hugh,
you'll come to-morrow night, won't you? No matter if
you are a grown up man, in the junior class, trying to
raise some whiskers! You will be a sort of restraint, and
keep us from getting too rude. Besides, we are going to
have tableaux, and I want you to act the part of bridegroom
in one of the scenes.”
“Who is to be the bride?” asked Hugh.
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“Ada Linwood. Now I know you'll come, won't you?”
“I'll see,” was Hugh's answer, as he walked away.
Jenny well knew that “I'll see” meant “yes,” and tying
on her bonnet, she hastened off to tell Ada that Uncle
Hugh would be present, and would act the part of bridegroom
in the scene where she was to be bride.
“What! that big man?” said Ada. “How funny!”
Before seven the next evening Mrs. Durant's parlors
were filled, for the guests were not old enough or fashionable
enough to delay making their appearance until morning.
Hugh was the last to arrive, for which Jenny scolded
him soundly, saying they were all ready for tableaux.
“But come, now,” said she, “and let me introduce you to
the bride.”
In ten minutes more the curtain rose, and Hugh St.
Leon appeared with Ada on his arm, standing before a
gentleman in clerical robes, who seemed performing the
marriage ceremony. Placing a ring on Ada's third finger,
St. Leon, when the whole was finished, took advantage
of his new relationship, and kissed the lips of the
bride. Amid a storm of applause the curtain dropped,
and as he led the blushing Ada away, he bent down, and
pointing to the ring, whispered, “Wear it until some future
day, when, by replacing it, I shall make you really
my little wife.”
The words were few and lightly spoken, but they touched
the heart of the young Ada, awakening within her thoughts
and feelings of which she never before had dreamed.
Frequently, after that, she met St. Leon, who sometimes
teased her about being his wife; but when he saw how
painfully embarrassed she seemed on such occasions, he
desisted.
The next year he was graduated, and the same day on
which he received the highest honors of his class was long
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remembered with heartfelt sorrow, for ere the city clocks
tolled the hour of midnight, he stood with his orphan
niece, Jenny, weeping over the inanimate form of his sister,
Mrs. Durant, who had died suddenly in a fit of apoplexy.
Mr. Durant had been dead some years, and as
Jenny had now no relatives in New Haven, she accompanied
her uncle to his southern home. Long and passionately
she wept on Ada's bosom, as she bade her farewell,
promising never to forget her, but to write her three
pages of foolscap every week. To do Jenny justice, we
must say that this promise was faithfully kept for a whole
month, and then, with thousands of its sisterhood, it disappeared
into the vale of broken promises and resolutions.
She still wrote occasionally, and at the end of each epistle
there was always a long postscript from Hugh, which
Ada prized almost as much as she did Jenny's whole letter;
and when at last matters changed, the letter becoming
Hugh's and the postscript Jenny's, she made no objection,
even if she felt any. At the time of her father's
failure and death, a long unanswered letter was lying in
her port-folio, which was entirely forgotten until weeks
after, when, in the home which Uncle Israel so disinterestedly
helped them to procure, she and her mother were
sewing for the food which they ate. Then a dozen times
was an answer commenced, blotted with tears, and finally
destroyed, until Ada, burrying her face in her mother's
lap, sobbed out, “Oh, mother, I cannot do it. I cannot
write to tell them how poor we are, for I remember that
Jenny was proud, and laughed at the school-girls whose
fathers were not rich.”
So the letter was never answered, and as St. Leon about
that time started on a tour through Europe, he knew nothing
of their change of circumstances. On his way home,
he had in Paris met with Harry Graham, who had been
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his classmate, and who now won from him a promise that
on his return to America he would visit his parents, in
S —. He did so, and there, as we have seen, met with
Ada Harcourt, whose face, voice, and manner reminded
him so strangely of the Ada he had known years before,
and whom he had never forgotten.
As the reader will have supposed, the sewing woman,
whose daughter Lucy Dayton so heartily despised, was
none other than Mrs. Linwood, of New Haven, who had
taken her husband's first name in order to avoid the persecutions
of Uncle Israel. The day following the party,
St. Leon spent in making inquiries concerning Mrs Harcourt,
and the information thus obtained determined him
to start at once for New Haven, in order to ascertain if
his suspicions were correct.
The result of his journey we already know. Still he resolved
not to make himself known, immediately, but to
wait until he satisfied himself that Ada was as good as
beautiful. And then?
A few more chapters will tell us what then.
CHAPTER VII. A MANEUVER.
The grey twilight of a cold December afternoon was
creeping over the village of S—, when Ada Harcourt
left her seat by the window, where, the live-long day, she
had sat stitching till her heart was sick and her eyes were
dim. On the faded calico lounge near the fire, lay Mrs.
Harcourt, who for several days had been unable to work,
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on account of a severe cold which seemed to have settled
in her face and eyes.
“There,” said Ada, as she brushed from her gingham
apron the bits of thread and shreds of cotton, “There, it
is done at last, and now before it is quite dark I will take
it home.”
“No, not to-night, child,” said Mrs. Harcourt; “to-morrow
will do just as well.”
“But, mother, answered Ada,” you know Mrs. Dayton
always pays as soon as the work is delivered, and what I
have finished will come to two dollars and a half, which
will last a long time, and we shall not be obliged to take
any from the sum laid by to pay our rent; besides, you
have had nothing nourishing for a long time; so let me
go, and on my way home I will buy you something nice
for supper.”
Mrs. Harcourt said no more, but the tears fell from her
aching eyes as she thought how hard her daughter was
obliged to labor, now that she was unable to assist her.
In a moment Ada was in the street. The little alley in
which she lived was soon traversed, and she was about
turning into Main street, when rapid footsteps approached
her, and St. Leon appeared at her side, saying, “Good
evening, Miss Harcourt; allow me to relieve you of that
bundle.”
And before she could prevent it, he took from her
hands the package, while he continued, “May I ask how
far you are walking to-night?”
Ada hesitated a moment, but quickly forcing down her
pride, she answered, “Only as far as Mr. Dayton's. I am
carrying home some work.”
“Indeed!” said he, “then I can have your company
all the way, for I am going to inquire after Lizzie.”
They soon reached their destination, and their ring at
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the door was not, as usual, answered by Bridget, but by
Lucy herself, whose sweet smile, as she greeted St. Leon,
changed into an angry scowl when she recognized his
companion.
“Ada Harcourt!” said she, and Ada, blushing scarlet,
began: “I have brought —,” but she was interrupted
by St. Leon, who handed Lucy the bundle, saying, “Here
is your work, Miss Dayton, and I hope it will suit you,
for we took a great deal of pains with it.”
Lucy tried to smile as she took the work, and then opening
the parlor door she with one hand motioned St. Leon
to enter, while with the other she held the hall door ajar,
as if for Ada to depart. A tear trembled on Ada's long
eyelashes, as she timidly asked, “Can I see your grandmother?”
“Mrs. Dayton, I presume you mean,” said Lucy,
haughtily.
Ada bowed, and Lucy continued: “She is not at home
just at present.”
“Perhaps, then, you can pay me for the work,” said
Ada.
The scowl on Lucy's face grew darker, as she replied,
“I have nothing to do with grandma's hired help. Come
to-morrow and she will be here. (How horridly cold
this open door makes the hall!”)
Ada thought of the empty cupboard at home, and of
her pale, sick mother. Love for her conquered all other
feelings, and in a choking voice she said, “Oh, Miss Dayton,
if you will pay it you will confer a great favor on
me, for mother is sick, and we need it so much!”
There was a movement in the parlor. St. Leon was
approaching, and with an impatient gesture, Lucy opened
the opposite door, saying to Ada, “Come in here.”
The tone was so angry that, under any other
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circumstances, Ada would have gone away. Now, however,
she entered, and Lucy, taking out her purse, said, “How
much is the sum about which you make so much fuss?”
“Two dollars and a half,” answered Ada.
“Two dollars and a half,” repeated Lucy; and then, as
a tear fell from Ada's eye, she added, contemptuously,
“It is a small amount to cry about.”
Ada made no reply, and was about leaving the room,
when Lucy detained her, by saying, “Pray, did you ask
Mr. St. Leon to accompany you here and bring your
bundle?”
“Miss Dayton, you know better,—you know I did not,”
answered Ada, as the fire of insulted pride flashed from
her dark blue eyes, which became almost black, while her
cheek grew pale as marble.
Instantly Lucy's manner changed, and in a softened
tone she said, “I am glad to know that you did not;
and now, as a friend, I warn you against receiving any
marks of favor from St. Leon.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ada, and Lucy continued:
“You have sense enough to know, that when a
man of St. Leon's standing shows any preference for a
girl in your circumstances, it can be from no good design.”
“You judge him wrongfully—you do not know him,”
said Ada; and Lucy answered, “Pray, where did you
learn so much about him?”
Ada only answered by rising to go.
“Here, this way,” said Lucy, and leading her through
an outer passage to the back door, she added, “I do it to
save your good name. St. Leon is undoubtedly waiting
for you, and I would not trust my own sister with him,
were she a poor sewing girl!”
The door was shut in Ada's face, and Lucy returned to
the parlor, where she found her father entertaining her
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[figure description] Page 212.[end figure description]
visitor. Seating herself on a crimson ottoman, she prepared
to do the agreeable, when St. Leon rising, said,
“Excuse my short call, for I must be going. Where have
you left Miss Harcourt?”
“I left her at the door,” answered Lucy, “and she is
probably half way to `Dirt Alley' by this time, so do not
be in haste.”
But he was in haste, for when he looked on the fast
gathering darkness without, and thought of the by streets
and lonely alleys through which Ada must pass on her
way home, he felt uneasy, and bidding Miss Dayton good-night,
he hurried away.
Meantime, Ada had procured the articles she wished
for, and proceeded home, with a heart which would have
been light as a bird, had not the remembrance of Lucy's
insulting language rung in her ears. Mrs. Harcourt saw
that all was not right, but she forbore making any inquiries
until supper was over. Then Ada, bringing a stool
to her mother's side, and laying her head on her lap, told
everything which had transpired between herself, St. Leon,
and Lucy.
Scarcely was her story finished, when there was a rap at
the door, and St. Leon himself entered the room. He had
failed in overtaking Ada, and anxious to know of her safe
return, had determined to call. The recognition between
himself and Mrs. Harcourt was mutual, but for reasons
of their own, neither chose to make it apparent, and Ada
introduced him to her mother as she would have done
any stranger. St. Leon possessed in an unusual degree
the art of making himself agreeable, and in the animated
conversation which ensued, Mrs. Harcourt forgot that she
was poor,—forgot her aching eyes; while Ada forgot everything
save that St. Leon was present, and that she was
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again listening to his voice, which charmed her now even
more than in the olden time.
During the evening, St. Leon managed, in various
ways, to draw Ada out on all the prominent topics of the
day, and he felt pleased to find, that amid all her poverty
she did not neglect the cultivation of her mind. A part
of each day was devoted to study, which Mrs. Harcourt,
who was a fine scholar, superintended.
It was fast merging toward the hour when phantoms walk
abroad, ere St. Leon remembered that he must go. As
he was leaving, he said to Ada, “I have a niece, Jenny,
about your age, whom I think you would like very much.”
Oh how Ada longed to ask for her old playmate, but a
look from her mother kept her silent, and in a moment
St. Leon was gone.
CHAPTER VIII. COUSIN BERINTHA AND LUCY'S PARTY.
Cousin Berintha, whom Lucy Dayton so much disliked
and dreaded, was a cousin of Mr. Dayton, and was
a prim, matter-of-fact maiden of fifty, or thereabouts.
That she was still in a state of single blessedness, was
partially her own fault, for at twenty she was engaged to
the son of a wealthy farmer who lived near her father.
But, alas! ere the wedding day arrived, there came to
the neighborhood a young lady from Boston, in whose
presence the beauty of the country girl grew dim, as do
the stars in the rays of the morning sun.
Berintha had a plain face, but a strong heart, and when
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she saw that Amy Holbrook was preferred, with steady
hand and unflinching nerve, she wrote to her recreant
lover that he was free. And now Amy, to whom the
false knight turned, took it into her capricious head that
she could not marry a farmer,—she had always fancied a
physician; and if young B— would win her, he must
first secure the title of M. D. He complied with her request,
and one week from the day on which he received
his diploma, Berintha read, with a slightly blanched
cheek, the notice of his marriage with the Boston
beauty. Three years from that day she read the announcement
of Amy's death, and in two years more
she refused the doctor's offer to give her a home by his
lonely fireside, and a place in his widowed heart. All
this had the effect of making Berintha rather cross,
but she seldom manifested her spite toward any one except
Lucy, whom she seemed to take peculiar delight in
teasing, and whose treatment of herself was not such as
would warrant much kindness in return.
Lizzie she had always loved, and when Harry Graham
went away, it was on Berintha's lap that the young girl
sobbed out her grief, wondering, when with her tears Berintha's
were mingled, how one apparently so cold and passionless
could sympathize with her. To no one had Berintha
ever confided the story of her early love. Mr.
Dayton was a school-boy then, and as but little was said
of it at the time, it faded entirely from memory; and
when Lucy called her a “crabbed old maid,” she knew
not of the disappointment which had clouded every joy,
and embittered a whole lifetime.
At the first intelligence of Lizzie's illness, Berintha
came, and though her prescriptions of every kind of herb
tea in the known world were rather numerous, and her
doses of the same were rather large, and though her stiff
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cap, sharp nose, and curious little eyes, which saw everything,
were exceedingly annoying to Lucy, she proved
herself an invaluable nurse, warming up old Dr. Benton's
heart into a glow of admiration of her wonderful skill!
Hour after hour she sat by Lizzie, bathing her burning
brow, or smoothing her tumbled pillow. Night after
night she kept her tireless watch, treading softly around
the sick-room, and lowering her loud, harsh voice to a
whisper, lest she should disturb the uneasy slumbers of
the sick girl, who, under her skillful nursing, gradually
grew better.
“Was there ever such a dear, good cousin,” said Lizzie,
one day, when a nervous headache had been coaxed
away by what Berintha called her “mesmeric passes;”
and “Was there ever such a horrid bore,” said Lucy, on
the same day, when Cousin Berintha “thought she saw a
white hair in Lucy's raven curls!” adding, by way of
consolation, “It wouldn't be anything strange, for I began
to grow gray before I was as old as you.”
“And that accounts for your head being just the color
of wool,” angrily retorted Lucy, little dreaming of the
bitter tears and sleepless nights which had early blanched
her cousin's hair to its present whiteness.
For several winters Lucy had been in the habit of giving
a large party, and as she had heard that St. Leon was soon
going south, she felt anxious to have it take place ere he
left town. But what should she do with Berintha, who
showed no indications of leaving, though Lizzie was much
better.
“I declare,” said she to herself, “that woman is enough
to worry the life out of me. I 'll speak to Liz about it
this very day.”
Accordingly, that afternoon, when alone with her sister,
she said, “Lizzie, is it absolutely necessary that
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Berintha should stay here any longer, to tuck you up, and
feed you sage tea through a straw?”
Lizzie looked inquiringly at her sister, who continued,
“To tell you the truth, I'm tired of having her around,
and must manage some way to get rid of her before next
week, for I mean to have a party Thursday night.”
Lizzie's eyes now opened in astonishment, as she exclaimed,
“A party! oh, Lucy, wait until I get well.”
“You'll be able by that time to come down stairs in
your crimson morning-gown, which becomes you so well,”
answered Lucy.
“But father's away,” rejoined Lizzie; to which Lucy
replied, “So much the better, for now I shan't be obliged
to ask any old things. I told him I meant to have it
while he was gone, for you know he hates parties. But
what shall I do with Berintha?”
“Why, what possible harm can she do?” asked Lizzie.
“She would enjoy it very much, I know; for in spite of
her oddities, she likes society.”
“Well, suppose she does; nobody wants her round,
prating about white hairs and mercy knows what. Come,
you tell her you don't need her services any longer—
that's a good girl.”
There was a look of mischief in Lizzie's eye, and a merry
smile on her lip, as she said, “Why, don't you know that
father has invited her to spend the winter, and she has
accepted the invitation?”
“Invited her to spend the winter!” repeated Lucy,
while the tears glittered in her bright eyes. “What does
he mean?”
“Why,” answered Lizzie, “it is very lonely at Cousin
John's, and his wife makes more of a servant of Berintha
than she does a companion, so father, out of pity, asked
her to stay with us, and she showed her good taste by
accepting.”
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“I'll hang myself in the woodshed before spring — see
if I don't!” and burying her face in her hands, Lucy wept
aloud, while Lizzie, lying back upon her pillow, laughed
immoderately at her sister's distress.
“There's a good deal to laugh at, I think,” said Lucy,
more angrily than she usually addressed her sister. “If
you have any pity, do devise some means of getting rid
of her, for a time, at least.”
“Well, then,” answered Lizzie, “she wants to go home
for a few days, in order to make some necessary preparations
for staying with us, and perhaps you can coax her
to go now, though I for one would like to have her stay.
Everybody knows she is your cousin, and no one will
think less of you for having her here.”
“But I won't do it,” said Lucy, “and that settles it.
Your plan is a good one, and I 'll get her off — see if I
don't!”
The next day, which was Saturday, Lucy was unusually
kind to her cousin, giving her a collar, offering to fix her
cap, and doing numerous other little things, which greatly
astonished Berintha. At last, when dinner was over, she
said, “Come, cousin, what do you say to a sleigh ride
this afternoon? I haven't been down to Elizabeth Betsey's
in a good while, so suppose we go to-day.”
Berintha was taken by surprise, but after a moment
she said just what Lucy hoped she would say, viz: that
she was wanting to go home for a few days, and if Lizzie
were only well enough, she would go now.
“Oh she is a great deal better,” said Lucy, “and you
can leave her as well as not. Dr. Benton says I am
almost as good a nurse as you, and I will take good care
of her,—besides, I really think you need rest; so go,
if you wish to, and next Saturday I will come round after
you.”
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Accordingly, Berintha, who suspected nothing, was
coaxed into going home, and when at three o'clock the
sleigh was said to be ready, she kissed Lizzie good-by,
and taking her seat by the side of Lucy, was driven rapidly
toward her brother's house.
“There! haven't I managed it capitally!” exclaimed
Lucy, as she reëntered her sister's room, after her ride;
“but the bother of it is, I've promised to go round next
Saturday, and bring not only Berintha, but Elizabeth
Betsey and her twins! Won't it be horrible! However,
the party'll be over, so I don't care.”
Cousin Berintha being gone, there was no longer any
reason why the party should be kept a secret, and before
nightfall every servant in the house was discussing it,
Bridget saying, “Faith, an' I thought it was mighty good
she was gettin' with that woman.”
Mrs. Dayton was highly indignant at the trick which
she plainly saw had been put upon Berintha, but Lucy
only replied, “that she wished it were as easy a matter
to get rid of grandma!”
On Monday cards of invitation to the number of one
hundred and fifty were issued, and when Lizzie, in looking
them over, asked why Ada Harcourt was left out, Lucy
replied, that “she guessed she wasn't going to insult her
guests by inviting a sewing girl with them. Anna Graham
could do so, but nobody was going to imitate her.”
“Invite her, then, for my sake, and in my name,”
pleaded Lizzie, but Lucy only replied, “I shall do no such
thing;” and thus the matter was settled.
Amid the hurry and preparation for the party, days
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glided rapidly away, and Thursday morning came, bright,
beautiful, and balmy, almost, as an autumnal day.
“Isn't this delightful!” said Lucy, as she stepped out
upon the piazza, and felt the warm southern breeze upon
her cheek. “It's a wonder, though,” she continued,
“that madam nature didn't conjure up an awful storm for
my benefit, as she usually does!”
Before night, she had occasion to change her mind concerning
the day.
Dinner was over, and she in Lizzie's room was combing
out her long curls, and trying the effect of wearing
them entirely behind her ears. Suddenly there was the
sound of sleigh bells, which came nearer, until they
stopped before the door. Lucy flew to the window, and
in tones of intense anger and surprise, exclaimed, “Now,
heaven defend us! here is Cousin John's old lumber sleigh
and rackabone horse, with Berintha and a hair trunk, a
red trunk, two bandboxes, a carpet-bag, a box full of
herbs, and a pillow-case full of stockings. What does it
all mean?”
She soon found out what it all meant, for Berintha entered
the room in high spirits. Kissing Lizzie, she next
advanced toward Lucy, saying, “You did n't expect me,
I know; but this morning was so warm and thawing,
that John said he knew the sleighing would all be gone
by Saturday, so I concluded to come to-day.”
Lucy was too angry to reply, and rushing from the
room, she closed the door after her, with a force which
fairly made the windows rattle. Berintha looked inquiringly
at Lizzie, who felt inadequate to an explanation;
so Berintha knew nothing of the matter until she descended
to the kitchen, and there learned the whole.
Now, if Lucy had treated her cousin politely and good-naturedly,
she would have saved herself much annoyance,
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but on the contrary, she told her that she was neither expected
nor wanted there; that parties were never intended
for “such old things;” and that now she was
there, she hoped she would stay in her own room, unless
she should happen to be wanted to wait on the table!
This speech, of course, exasperated Berintha, but she
made no reply, although there was on her face a look of
quiet determination, which Lucy mistook for tacit acquiescence
in her proposal.
Five—six—seven—eight—struck the little brass clock,
and no one had come except old Dr. Benton, who, being
a widower and an intimate friend of the family, was invited,
as Lucy said, for the purpose of beauing grandma!
Lizzie, in crimson double-gown, and soft, warm shawl, was
reclining on the sofa in the parlor, the old doctor muttering
about carelessness, heated rooms, late hours, &c.
Grandman, in rich black silk and plain Quaker cap, was
hovering near her favorite child, asking continually if she
were too hot, or too cold, or too tired, while Lucy, in
white muslin dress and flowing curls, flitted hither and
thither, fretting at the servants, or ordering grandma, and
occasionally tapping her sister's pale cheek, to see if she
could not coax some color into it.
“You'll live to see it whiter still,” said the doctor, who
was indignant at finding his patient down stairs.
And where all this time was Berintha? The doctor
asked this question, and Lucy asked this question, while
Lizzie replied, that “she was in her room.”
“And I hope to goodness she'll stay there,” said Lucy.
Dr. Benton's gray eyes fastened upon the amiable
young lady, who, by way of explanation, proceeded to relate
her maneuvers for keeping “the old maid” from the
party.
We believe we have omitted to say that Lucy had
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some well founded hopes of being one day, together with
her sister, heiress of Dr. Benton's property, which was
considerable. He was a widower, and had no relatives.
He was also very intimate with Mr. Dayton's family, always
evincing a great partiality for Lucy and Lizzie, and
had more than once hinted at the probable disposal of his
wealth. Of course, Lucy, in his presence, was all amiability,
and though he was usually very far sighted, he but
partially understood her real character. Something, however,
in her remarks concerning Berintha, displeased him.
Lucy saw it, but before she had time for any thought on
the subject, the door-bell rang, and a dozen or more of
guests entered.
The parlors now began to fill rapidly. Ere long, St.
Leon came, and after paying his compliments to Lucy, he
took his station between her and the sofa, on which Lizzie
sat. So delighted was Lucy to have him thus near,
that she forgot Berintha, until that lady herself appeared
in the room, bowing to those she knew, and seating herself
on the sofa, very near St. Leon. The angry blood
rushed in torrents to Lucy's face, and St. Leon, who saw
something was wrong, endeavored to divert her mind by
asking her various questions.
At last he said, “I do not see Miss Harcourt. Where
is she?”
“She is not expected,” answered Lucy, carelessly.
“Ah!” said St. Leon; and Berintha, touching his arm,
rejoined, “Of course you could not think Ada Harcourt
would be invited here!”
“Indeed! Why not?” asked St. Leon, and Berintha
continued: “To be sure, Ada is handsome, and Ada is
accomplished, but then Ada is poor, and consequently
can't come!”
“But I see no reason why poverty should debar her
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from good society,” said St. Leon; and Berintha, with an
exultant glance at Lucy, who, if possible, would have
paralyzed her tongue, replied, “Why, if Ada were present,
she might rival somebody in somebody's good opinion.
Wasn't that what you said, Cousin Lucy? Please correct
me, if I get wrong.”
Lucy frowned angrily, but made no reply, for Berintha
had quoted her very words. After a moment's pause, she
proceeded: “Yes, Ada is poor; so though she can come
to the front door with a gentleman, she cannot go out
that way, but must be led to a side door or back door;
which was it, Cousin Lucy?”
“I don't know what you are talking about,” answered
Lucy; and Berintha, in evident surprise, exclaimed, “Why,
don't you remember when Ada came here with a gentle
man,— let me see, who was it? — well, no matter who
'twas,— she came with a gentleman,— he was ushered into
the parlor, while you took her into a side room, then into a
side passage, and out at the side door, kindly telling her
to beware of the gentleman in the parlor, who could want
nothing good of sewing girls!”
“You are very entertaining to-night,” said Lucy; to
which Berintha replied, “You did not think I could be
so agreeable, did you, when you asked me to keep out of
sight this evening, and said that such old fudges as grandma
and I would appear much better in our rooms, taking
snuff, and nodding at each other over our knitting
work?”
Lucy looked so distressed that Lizzie pitied her, and
touching Berintha, she said, “Please don't talk any
more.”
At that moment supper was announced, and after it
was over, St. Leon departed, notwithstanding Lucy's urgent
request that he would remain longer. As the street
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door closed after him, she felt that she would gladly have
seen every other guest depart, also. A moody fit came
on, and the party would have been voted a failure, had it
not been for the timely interference of Dr. Benton and
Berintha. Together they sought out any who seemed
neglected, entertaining them to the best of their ability,
and leaving with every one the impression that they were
the best natured couple in the world. At eleven o'clock,
Lizzie, wearied out, repaired to her chamber. Her departure
was the signal for others, and before one o'clock
the last good-night was said, the doors locked, the silver
gathered up, the tired servants dismissed, and Lucy, in
her sister's room, was giving vent to her wrath against
Berintha, the party, St. Leon, and all.
Scolding, however, could do her no good, and ere long,
throwing herself undressed upon a lounge, she fell asleep,
and dreamed that grandma was married to the doctor,
that Berintha had become her step-mother, and, worse
than all, that Ada Harcourt was Mrs. St. Leon.
CHAPTER IX. A WEDDING AT ST. LUKE'S.
The day but one following the party, as Lucy was doing
some shopping down street, she stepped for a moment
into her dress-maker's, Miss Carson's, where she found
three or four of her companions, all eagerly discussing
what seemed to be quite an interesting topic. As Lucy
entered, one of them, turning toward her, said, “Oh,
isn't it strange? Or have'nt you heard?”
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“Heard what?” asked Lucy; and her companion replied,
“Why, Ada Harcourt is going to be married.
Miss Carson is making her the most beautiful traveling
dress, with silk hat to match—”
“Besides three or four elegant silk dresses,” chimed in
another.
“And the most charming morning-gown you ever saw—
apple green, and dark green, striped — and lined with
pink silk,” rejoined a third.
By this time Lucy had sunk into the nearest chair.
The truth had flashed upon her, as it probably has upon
you; but as she did not wish to betray her real emotions,
she forced a little bitter laugh, and said, “St. Leon, I
suppose, is the bridegroom.”
“Yes; who told you?” asked her companion.
“Oh, I've seen it all along,” answered Lucy, carelessly.
“He called with her once at our house!”
“But you did n't invite her to your party,” said mischievous
Bessie Lee, who loved dearly to tease Lucy Dayton.
“You did n't invite her to your party, and so he
left early, and I dare say went straight to Mrs. Harcourt's
and proposed, if he had n't done so before. Now, don't
you wish you'd been more polite to Ada? They say he's
got a cousin south, as rich and handsome as he is, and if
you'd only behaved as you should, who knows what might
have happened!”
Lucy deigned Bessie no reply, and turning to another
young lady, asked, “When is the wedding to be?”
“Next Thursday morning, in the church,” was the answer;
and Bessie Lee again interposed, saying, “Come,
Lucy, I don't believe you have ever returned Ada's call,
and as I am going to see her, and inquire all about that
Cousin Frank, suppose you accompany me, and learn the
particulars of the wedding.”
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“Thank you,” said Lucy; “I don't care enough about
it to take that trouble;” and soon rising, she left the
shop.
If Lucy manifested so much indifference, we wot of
some bright eyes and eager ears, which are willing to
know the particulars, so we will give them, as follows:
When St. Leon left Mr. Dayton's, it was ten o'clock, but
notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, he started for
the small brown house on “Dirt Alley,” where dwelt the
sewing woman and her daughter, who were both busy
on some work which they wished to finish that night.
Ada had stopped for a moment to replenish the fire, when
a knock at the door startled her. Opening it, she saw
St. Leon, and in much surprise said, “Why, I supposed
you were at the party.”
“So I have been,” said he; “but I grew weary, and
left for a more congenial atmosphere;” then advancing
toward Mrs. Harcourt, he took her hand, saying, “Mrs.
Linwood, allow me to address you by your right name
this evening.”
We draw a vail over the explanation which followed —
over the fifty-nine questions asked by Ada concerning
Jenny — and over the one question asked by St. Leon, the
answer to which resulted in the purchase of all those
dresses at Miss Carson's, and the well-founded rumor, that
on Thursday morning a wedding would take place at St.
Luke's church.
Poor Lucy! how disconsolate she felt! St. Leon was
passing from her grasp, and there was no help. On her
way home, she three times heard of the wedding, and of
Ada's real name and former position in life, and each time
her wrath waxed warmer and warmer. Fortunate was it
for Berintha and grandma that neither made her appearance
until tea time, for Lucy was in just the state when
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an explosive storm would surely have followed any remark
addressed to her!
The next day was the Sabbath, and as Lucy entered
the church, the first object which met her eye was St.
Leon, seated in the sewing woman's pew, and Ada tolerably
though not very near him! “How disgusting!”
she hissed between her teeth, as she entered her own
richly cushioned seat, and opened her velvet-bound prayer
book. Precious little of the sermon heard she that day,
for, turn which way she would, she still saw in fancy the
sweet young face of her rival; and it took but a slight
stretch of imagination to bring to view a costly house in
the far off “sunny south,” a troop of servants, a handsome,
noble husband, and the hated Ada the happy mistress
of them all! Before church was out, Lucy was really
sick, and when at home in her room, she did not refuse
the bowl of herb tea which Berintha kindly brought
her, saying “it had cured her when she felt just so.”
The morning of the wedding came, and though Lucy
had determined not to be present, yet as the hour approached
she felt how utterly impossible it would be for
her to stay away; and when at half past eight the doors
were opened, she was among the first who entered the
church, which in a short time was filled. Nine rang
from the old clock in the belfry, and then up the broad
aisle came the bridal party, consisting of Mr. and Mrs.
Graham, Charlie and Anna, Mrs. Harcourt, or Mrs. Linwood,
as we must now call her, St. Leon, and Ada.
“Was there ever a more beautiful bride?” whispered
Bessie Lee; but Lucy made no answer, and as soon as
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the ceremony was concluded she hurried home, feeling
almost in need of some more catnip tea!
In the eleven o'clock train St. Leon with his bride and
her mother started for New Haven, where they spent a
delightful week, and then returned to S—. A few
days were passed at the house of Mr. Graham, and then
they departed for their southern home. As we shall not
again have occasion to speak of them in this story, we will
here say that the following summer they came north, together
with Jenny and Cousin Frank, the latter of whom
was so much pleased with the rosy cheeks, laughing eyes,
and playful manners of Bessie Lee, that when he returned
home, he coaxed her to accompany him; and again was
there a wedding in St. Luke's, and again did Miss Carson
make the bridal outfit, wishing that all New Orleans gentlemen
would come to S— for their wives.
CHAPTER X. A SURPRISE.
“Reuben,” said Grandma Dayton to her son, one evening
after she had listened to the reading of a political
article for which she did not care one fig, “Reuben, does
thee suppose Dr. Benton makes a charge every time he
calls?”
“I don't know,” said Mr. Dayton; “what made you
ask that question?”
“Because,” answered grandma,—and her knitting needles
rattled loud enough to be heard in the next room—
“because, I think he calls mighty often, considering that
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Lizzie neither gets better nor worse; and I think, too,
that he and Berintha have a good many private talks!”
The paper dropped from Mr. Dayton's hand, and “what
can you mean?” dropped from his lips.
“Why,” resumed grandma, “every time he comes, he
manages to see Berintha alone; and hain't thee noticed
that she has colored her hair lately, and left off caps?”
“Yes; and she looks fifteen years younger for it; but
what of that?”
Grandma, whose remarks had all been preparatory to
the mighty secret she was about to divulge, coughed,
and then informed her son that Berintha was going to be
married, and wished to have the wedding there.
“Berintha and the doctor! Good!” exclaimed Mr.
Dayton. “To be sure, I'll give her a wedding, and a
wedding dress, too.”
Here grandma left the room, and after reporting her
success to Berintha, she sought her grand-daughters, and
communicated to them the expected event. When Lucy
learned of her cousin's intended marriage, she was nearly
as much surprised and provoked as she had been when
first she heard of Ada's.
Turning to Lizzie, she said, “It's too bad! for of
course we shall have to give up all hopes of the doctor's
money.”
“And perhaps thee'll be the only old maid in the family,
after all,” suggested grandma, who knew Lucy's weak
point, and sometimes loved to touch it.
“And if I am,” retorted Lucy, angrily, “I hope I
shall have sense enough to mind my own business, and
not interfere with that of my grandchildren!”
Grandma made no answer, but secretly she felt some conscientious
scruples with regard to Lucy's grandchildren!
As for Berintha, she seemed entirely changed, and flitted
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about the house in a manner which caused Lucy to call her
“an old fool, trying to ape sixteen.” With a change of feelings,
her personal appearance also changed, and when she
one day returned from the dentist's with an entire set of
new teeth, and came down to tea in a dark, fashionably
made merino, the metamorphose was complete, and grandma
declared that she looked better than she ever had before
in her life. The doctor, too, was improved, and though
he did not color his hair, he ordered six new shirts, a
new coat, a new horse, and a pair of gold spectacles!
After a due lapse of time, the appointed day came, and
with it, at an early hour, came Cousin John and Elizabeth
Betsey, bringing with them the few herbs which Berintha,
at the time of her removal, had overlooked.
These Bridget demurely proposed should be given to
Miss Lucy, “who of late was much given to drinking
catnip.” Perfectly indignant, Lucy threw the herbs, bag
and all, into the fire, thereby filling the house with an
odor which made the asthmatic old doctor wheeze and
blow wonderfully, during the evening.
A few of the villagers were invited, and when all was
ready, Mr. Dayton brought down in his arms his white-faced
Lizzie, who imperceptibly had grown paler and
weaker every day, while those who looked at her as she
reclined upon the sofa, sighed, and thought of a different
occasion when they probably would assemble there. For
once Lucy was very amiable, and with the utmost politeness
and good nature, waited upon the guests. There was a
softened light in her eye, and a heightened bloom on her
cheek, occasioned by a story which Berintha, two hours
before, had told her, of a heart all crushed in its youth,
and aching on through long years of loneliness, but which
was about to be made happy by a union with the only object
it had ever loved! Do you start and wonder?
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Have you not guessed that Dr. Benton, who, that night,
for the second time breathed the marriage vow, was the
same who, years before, won the girlish love of Berintha
Dayton, and then turned from her to the more beautiful
Amy Holbrook, finding, too late, that all is not gold that
glitters? It is even so, and could you have seen how
tightly he clasped the hand of his new wife, and how
fondly his eye rested upon her, you would have said that,
however long his affections might have wandered, they
had at last returned to her, his first, best love.
CHAPTER XI. LIZZIE.
Gathered 'round a narrow coffin,
Stand a mourning, funeral train,
While for her, redeemed thus early,
Tears are falling now like rain.
Hopes are crushed and hearts are bleeding;
Drear the fireside now, and lone;
She, the best loved and the dearest,
Far away to heaven hath flown.
Long, long, will they miss thee, Lizzie,
Long, long days for thee they'll weep;
And through many nights of sorrow
Memory will her vigils keep.
In the chapter just finished, we casually mentioned that
Lizzie, instead of growing stronger, had drooped day by
day, until to all, save the fond hearts which watched her,
she seemed surely passing away. But they to whom her
presence was as sunlight to the flowers, shut their eyes to
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the dreadful truth, refusing to believe that she was leaving
them. Oftentimes, during the long winter nights,
would Mr. Dayton steal softly to her chamber, and kneeling
by her bedside, gaze in mute anguish upon the wasted
face of his darling. And when from her transparent
brow and marble cheek he wiped the deadly night-sweats,
a chill, colder far than the chill of death, crept over his
heart, and burying his face in his hands he would cry,
“Oh, Father, let this cup pass from me!”
As spring approached, she seemed better, and the father's
heart grew stronger, and Lucy's step was lighter, and
grandma's words more cheerful, as hope whispered, “she
will live.” But when the snow was melted from off the
hillside, and over the earth the warm spring sun was shining,
when the buds began to swell and the trees to put
forth their young leaves, there came over her a change so
fearful, that with one bitter cry of sorrow, hope fled forever;
and again, in the lonely night season, the weeping
father knelt and asked for strength to bear it when his
best loved child was gone.
“Poor Harry!” said Lizzie one day to Anna, who was
sitting by her, “Poor Harry, if I could see him again;
but I never shall.”
“Perhaps you will,” answered Anna. “I wrote to
him three weeks ago, telling him to come quickly.”
“Then he will,” said Lizzie; “but if I should be dead
when he comes, tell him how I loved him to the last, and
that the thought of leaving him was the sharpest pang I
suffered.”
There were tears in Anna's eyes as she kissed the cheek
of the sick girl, and promised to do her bidding. After
a moment's pause, Lizzie added, “I am afraid Harry is
not a christian, and you must promise not to leave him
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until he has a well-founded hope that again in heaven I
shall see him.”
Anna promised all, and then as Lizzie seemed exhausted,
she left her and returned home. One week from that day
she stood once more in Lizzie's sick-room, listening, for
the last time, to the tones of the dying girl, as she bade
her friends adieu. Convulsed with grief, Lucy knelt by
the bedside, pressing to her lips one little clammy hand,
and accusing herself of destroying her sister's life. In
the farthest corner of the room sat Mr. Dayton. He
could not stand by and see stealing over his daughter's
face the dark shadow which falls but once on all. He
could not look upon her, when o'er her soft, brown eyes
the white lids closed forever. Like a naked branch in
the autumn wind, his whole frame shook with agony, and
though each fibre of grandma's heart was throbbing with
anguish, yet, for the sake of her son, she strove to be
calm, and soothed him as she would a little child. Berintha,
too, was there, and while her tears were dropping
fast, she supported Lizzie in her arms, pushing back from
her pale brow the soft curls, which, damp with the moisture
of death, lay in thick rings upon her forehead.
“Has Harry come?” said Lizzie.
The answer was in the negative, and a moan of disappointment
came from her lips.
Again she spoke: “Give him my bible,—and my curls;—
when I am dead let Lucy arrange them,—she knows
how,—then cut them off, and the best, the longest, the
brightest is for Harry, the others for you all. And tell—
tell—tell him to meet—me in heaven—where I'm—going—
going.”
A stifled shriek from Lucy, as she fell back, fainting,
told that with the last word, “going,” Lizzie had gone to
heaven!
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An hour after the tolling bell arrested the attention of
many, and of the few who asked for whom it tolled,
nearly all involuntarily sighed and said, “Poor Harry!
Died before he came home!”
It was the night before the burial, and in the back parlor
stood a narrow coffin containing all that was mortal
of Lizzie Dayton. In the front parlor Bridget and another
domestic kept watch over the body of their young
mistress. Twelve o'clock rang from the belfry of St.
Luke's church, and then the midnight silence was broken
by the shrill scream of the locomotive, as the
eastern train thundered into the depot. But the senses
of the Irish girls were too profoundly locked in sleep
to heed that common sound; neither did they hear the
outer door, which by accident had been left unlocked,
swing softly open, nor saw they the tall figure which
passed by them into the next room,—the room where
stood the coffin.
Suddenly through the house there echoed a cry, so
long, so loud, so despairing, that every sleeper started
from their rest, and hurried with nervous haste to the
parlor, where they saw Harry Graham, bending in wild
agony over the body of his darling Lizzie, who never before
had turned a deaf ear to his impassioned words of
endearment. He had received his sister's letter, and
started immediately for home, but owing to some delay,
did not reach there in time to see her alive. Anxious to
know the worst, he had not stopped at his father's house,
but seeing a light in Mr. Dayton's parlors, hastened
thither. Finding the door unlocked, he entered, and on
seeing the two servant girls asleep, his heart beat quickly
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with apprehension. Still he was unprepared for the
shock which awaited him, when on the coffin and her
who slept within it his eye first rested. He did not faint,
nor even weep, but when his friends came about him with
words of sympathy, he only answered, '`Lizzie, Lizzie,
she is dead!”
During the remainder of that sad night, he sat by the
coffin pressing his hand upon the icy forehead until its
coldness seemed to benumb his faculties, for when in the
morning his parents and sister came, he scarcely noticed
them; and still the world, misjudging ever, looked upon
his calm face and tearless eye, and said that all too lightly
had he loved the gentle girl, whose last thoughts and
words had been of him. Ah, they knew not the utter
wreck the death of that young girl had made, of the bitter
grief, deeper and more painful because no tear-drop
fell to moisten its feverish agony. They buried her, and
then back from the grave came the two heart-broken men,
the father and Harry Graham, each going to his own
desolate home, the one to commune with the God who
had given and taken away, and the other to question the
dealings of that providence which had taken from him
his all.
Days passed, and nothing proved of any avail to win
Harry from the deep despair which seemed to have settled
upon him. At length, Anna bethought her of the
soft, silken curl which had been reserved for him. Quickly
she found it, and taking with her the bible, repaired to
her brother's room. Twining her arms around his neck,
she told him of the death-scene, of which he before had
refused to hear. She finished her story by suddenly holding
to view the long, bright ringlet, which once adorned
the fair head now resting in the grave. Her plan was
successful, for bursting into tears, Harry wept nearly two
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hours. From that time, he seemed better, and was frequently
found bathed in tears, and bending over Lizzie's
bible, which now was his daily companion.
Lucy, too, seemed greatly changed. She had loved her
sister as devotedly as one of her nature could love, and for
her death she mourned sincerely. Lizzie's words of love
and gentle persuasion had not been without their effect,
and when Mr. Dayton saw how kind, how affectionate and
considerate of other people's feelings his daughter had become,
he felt that Lizzie had not died in vain.
Seven times have the spring violets blossomed, seven
times the flowers of summer bloomed, seven times have the
autumnal stores been gathered in, and seven times have the
winds of winter sighed over the New England hills, since
Lizzie was laid to rest. In her home there have been few
changes. Mr. Dayton's hair is whiter than it was of old,
and the furrows on his brow deeper and more marked.
Grandma, quiet and gentle as ever, knits on, day after
day, ever and anon speaking of “our dear little Lizzie,
who died years ago.”
Lucy is still unmarried, and satisfied, too, that it should
be so. A patient, self-sacrificing christian, she strives to
make up to her father for the loss of one over whose
memory she daily weeps, and to whose death she accuses
herself of being accessory. Dr. Benton and his rather
fashionable wife live in their great house, ride in their
handsome carriage, give large dinner parties, play chess
after supper, and then the old doctor nods over his evening
paper, while Berintha nods over a piece of embroidery,
intended to represent a little dog chasing a butterfly,
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and which would as readily be taken for that as for anything
else, and for anything else as that.
Two years ago a pale young missionary departed to
carry the news of salvation to the heathen land. Some
one suggested that he should take with him a wife, but
he shook his head mournfully, saying, “I have one wife
in heaven.” The night before he left home, he might
have been seen, long after midnight, seated upon a grassy
grave, where the flowers of summer were growing.
Around the stone which marks the spot, rose bushes have
clustered so thickly as to hide from view the words there
written, but push them aside and you will read, “Our
darling Lizzie.”
-- -- p598-242
The Old Red House AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.
[figure description] Page 237.[end figure description]
CHAPTER I. UNCLE AMOS AND AUNT POLLY.
Many years ago, before I was born, or you either, perchance,
gentle reader, there lived, far away among the tall
mountains of New England, a sturdy farmer, Uncle Amos
Carey, and his good wife Polly. This worthy couple,
who seemed to be every body's uncle and aunt, were
known for many miles around, and their “old red house
among the mountains” was long the rendezvous for all
the young mountaineers, who, with their rosy cheeked
lasses, congregated there on all “great days,” and on many
days which were not great.
There was some strong attraction about that low, red
building. Perhaps it was because the waters of the well
which stood in the rear were colder, or the grass in the
little yard was greener, and the elm trees and lilac bushes
taller there than elsewhere. Or it might have been because
Aunt Polly was deeply skilled in the mysteries of
fortune-telling, by means of teacups and tea-grounds.
Many a time might the good dame have been seen, surrounded
by half a dozen girls, all listening eagerly, while
Aunt Polly, with a dolefully grave expression about her
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long nose, peered into some teacup, in the bottom of
which lay a mass of tea-leaves in helter-skelter form.
Slowly and solemnly would she unfold the shining future
to some bright-eyed maiden, whose heart beat faster as
the thoughts of a rich husband, fine house, and more
dresses than she knew what to do with, were presented
to her imagination. At other times, the end of Aunt
Polly's nose would perceptibly flatten, and her voice would
become fearfully low, as, with an ominous shake of her
head, she dove into the teacup of some luckless wight,
who was known to have pilfered her grapes and plundered
her water-melon patch! On such occasions, dreadful was
the fortune given to the unfortunate offender. A broken
heart, broken leg, and most likely a broken neck, were
awarded to him for his delinquencies.
Notwithstanding these occasional ill fortunes, Aunt
Polly was a great favorite with the young folks, who, as
we have said, were frequent visitors at “the old red house
among the mountains.”
CHAPTER II. ALICE.
Uncle Amos had one child, a daughter, named Alice.
At a period longer ago than I can remember, Alice was
fifteen years of age, and was as wild and shy a creature as
the timid deer, which sometimes bounded past her mountain
home, trembling at the rustle of every leaf and the
buzz of every bee. There was much doubt whether Alice
were the veritable child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly,
or not.
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Rumor said that nearly fifteen years before, a fearful
snow storm, such as the “oldest inhabitant” had never
before known, swept over the mountains, blocking up the
roads, and rendering them impassable for several days.
On the first night of the storm, about dusk, a slight female
form was seen toiling slowly up the mountain road,
which led to Uncle Amos' house. A man who was hurrying
home met her, and anxious to know who she was,
looked under her bonnet. Her face, as he afterwards described
it, was very white and crazy-like, and very beautiful.
Another person, a woman, had been with her knitting
work to one of the neighbors, and was also returning
home. Suddenly turning a corner in the road, she came
face to face with the weary traveler, who seemed anxious
to pass unnoticed. But the woman was inquisitive, and
desirous of knowing who the stranger could be; so she
asked her name, and where she was going. A glance of
anger shot from the large black eye of the strange woman,
but farther than that she deigned no reply; and as she
passed on, the questioner observed that she carried in her
arms something which might or might not be an infant.
The next day the storm raged so violently that neither
man, woman, nor child were seen outside their own yards.
For three days the storm continued with unabated fury,
and several more days passed before the process of “breaking
roads” was gone through with, sufficiently to admit
of a passage from one house to another. At the end of
that time, one night, just after sunset, a whole sled load
of folks drew up in front of Uncle Amos' dwelling They
could not wait any longer before visiting Aunt Polly,
whose smiling face appeared at the door, and called out,
“Welcome to you all. I's expecting you, and have got
a lot of mince pies and doughnuts made.”
So the dames and lasses bounded off from the ox-sled,
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and running hastily into the house, were soon relieving
themselves of their warm wrappings. There was so much
talking and laughing among them, that the cloaks, shawls,
and hoods were all put away before one of them exclaimed,
“Mercy sakes! Here's a cradle! Is your cat sick, Aunt
Polly? But no,—as true as I live, it's a little bit of a
baby! Where in this world did you get it, Aunt Polly?”
But if Aunt Polly knew where she got it, she kept the
knowledge to herself, and bravely withstood the questioning
and cross-questioning of her fair guests.
“Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies,” said
she. “It is my child, and haven't I as good a right to have
a daughter as anybody?”
“Yes, thee has,” said Dolly Dutton, a fair, chubby little
Quakeress; “and well is it for the poor thing that it
can call thee mother.”
By this time the baby had been unceremoniously hustled
out of its snug cradle by some of the young girls, who
were all loud in their admiration of its beauty.
“What do you call it, Aunt Polly?” asked one.
“Alice,” was Aunt Polly's quiet reply.
At that moment the baby slowly unclosed its large eyes,
and fixed them on the face of the young girl who held her,
with a strange, earnest gaze. Up sprung the girl as if
stung by a serpent. “Gracious goodness!” exclaimed
she, “will somebody please take her. She's got the `evil
eye' I do believe, and looks for all the world like old
Squire Herndon.”
Aunt Polly hastily stooped down to take the child, but
she did not stoop soon enough or low enough to hide from
Dolly Dutton's keen eye the deep flush which mantled
her cheek at the mention of Squire Herndon. From that
time Dolly's mind was made up respecting Alice. She
knew something which most of her neighbors did not
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know, but as she chose to keep it a secret, so too will I,
for a time, at least.
Merrily sang the round tea-kettle in the bright fire
which blazed on Aunt Polly's clean hearth, and loudly
hissed the strong green tea in the old black earthen teapot,
while the long pine table, with its snowy cloth,
groaned beneath its weight of edibles. The spirits of the
company rose higher in proportion as the good cheer grew
lower. Numerous were the jokes cracked at the expense
of the little Alice, who, with her large, wild eyes, lay in
her cradle bed, wholly unconscious of the wonder and
gossip she was exciting.
“It's of no use, Richard, for thee to quiz Aunt Polly
concerning Alice, for she ain't going to tell, and most
likely has a good reason for her silence,” said Dolly Dutton
to Mr. Richard Hallidon, who had the honor of being
schoolmaster in the little village which lay snugly nestled
at the foot of the mountain.
“Neither would I give the worth of a quill pen to
know,” said Richard, “but I will stipulate with Aunt
Polly that as soon as Alice is old enough, she shall come
to my school.”
To this proposition Aunt Polly readily assented, and
after much laughing and joking, and the disappearance
of a large tin pan full of red apples, and a gallon or so of
egg nog, the little party left for home.
Ere the heavy tread of the oxen and the creaking of
the cumbrous sled had died away in the distance, Uncle
Amos was snugly ensconced in bed, and in the course of
five minutes he was sending forth sundry loud noises
which sounded like snoring; but as the good man warmly
contended that he never snored, (has the reader ever seen
a man who would confess he did snore?) we will suppose
the sounds to have been something else. Aunt Polly sat
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by the fire with the child of her adoption lying on her
lap. Bending down, she closely scrutinized each feature
of the small, white face, and as the infant opened its full,
dark eyes, and fixed them inquiringly upon her, she murmured,
“Yes, she does look like Squire Herndon; strange
I never thought of it before. But deary me,” she continued,
“who ever did see such awful eyes? They fairly
make me fidgety. There, shut them up,” said she, at the
same time pressing down the lids over the eyes, which
seemed to look so knowingly at her.
The offending eyes being shut, the old lady continued
her musing. “Yes,” thought she, “Alice has the Herndon
look. I wonder what the old squire would say if he
knew all. I've half a mind to tell him, just to see what
kind of a hurricane he would get up.” Then followed a
long reverie, in the midst of which stood a large, handsome
castle, of which Alice was the proud nominal mistress,
and Aunt Polly the real one.
By the time this castle was fully completed and furnished,
Aunt Polly was fast nodding assent to every improvement.
Fainter and fainter grew the fire on the
hearth, clearer and clearer ticked the old long clock in
the corner, louder and louder grew the breathings of
Uncle Amos, while lower and lower nodded Aunt Polly's
spectacles, till at last they dropped from the long, sharp
nose, and rested quietly on the floor. How long this
state of things would have continued, is not known, for
matters were soon brought to a crisis by Uncle Amos,
who gave a snore so loud and long that it woke the baby,
Alice, whose uneasy turnings soon roused her sleeping
nurse.
“Bless my stars!” said Aunt Polly, rubbing her eyes
“where's my spectacles? I must have had a nap.” A
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few moments more, and silence again settled round the
house, and its occupants were wandering through the
misty vales of dreamland.
CHAPTER III. LITTLE ITEMS.
We pass rapidly over the first ten years of Alice's life,
only pausing to say that she throve well under the kind
care of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly, whom she looked
upon as her parents, for she knew no others. As she increased
in stature and years, her personal appearance was
remarked and commented upon by the matrons of the
mountains, as well as those of the village at the foot of
the mountain.
One would say, “She and old Herndon looked as much
alike as two peas,” while another would answer, “Yes,
only Alice has got such strange, scornful eyes. They
look at you as though they could read all your thoughts.”
And now I suppose some reader will say, “How did Alice
look, and what was it about her eyes?” So here
follows a description of Alice as she was at ten years
of age.
Naturally healthy, the strength of her constitution was
greatly increased by the mountain air and exercise to
which she was daily accustomed. Still, in form she was
delicate, and Aunt Polly often expressed her fears that
the poor child would never attain her height, which was
five feet ten inches! Alice's features were tolerably regular,
and her complexion was as white and pure as the
falling snow. Indeed, there was something almost
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startling in the marble whiteness of her face, contrasting, as it
did, with the blackness of her hair, which hung in short,
tangled curls about her neck, forehead, and eyes. Those
eyes we will speak of, ere long. We are not yet through
with Alice's hair, which cost her poor mother a world of
trouble. Do what she might, it would curl. Soak it in
suds as long as she chose, and as soon as it dried, it curled
more than ever! What a pest it was! Aunt Polly
couldn't spend her time in curling hair, and as Alice did
not know how, there seemed but one alternative — cut it
off; but this Alice would not suffer, so one hour every
Sunday morning was devoted to combing and curling
the really handsome hair, which during the week hung
in wild disorder about her face, becoming each day more
and more tangled and matted, until it was not strange
that Alice thought she should surely die if it were combed
more than once a week.
Now for those eyes. After all, there was nothing so
very goblin-like about them. They were merely very
large, very black, and very bright, and seemed, indeed,
to look into the recesses of one's soul, and pry out his inmost
thoughts. There was a world of pride and scorn
beneath the long silken eyelashes, which seemed so seldom
to be closed, for as one of the villagers said, “Alice's
eyes were always looking, looking at you.” On occasions
when Aunt Polly was engaged in her favorite occupation
of fortune-telling, Alice's eyes would flash forth
her utter contempt of the whole matter, and many a
young maiden, shamed by the scorn of the little wild girl,
as she was called, would conclude not to have “her fortune
told.”
It was seldom, however, that Alice honored her mother's
company by her presence. She seemed to prefer the
woods, the birds, and flowers for her companions.
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Sometimes she would steal away into the little bed-room, which
joined her mother's sitting-room, and there, unobserved,
she would watch, through a hole in the door, the countenances
and proceedings of the company around her
mother's tea-table. Often would some of the guests be
startled by the fixed gaze of those large, black eyes,
which seemed to look with such haughty pity on the
farce which always followed one of Aunt Polly's tea-drinkings.
CHAPTER IV. FRANK.
One bright summer afternoon when there was no
school, Alice wandered out alone into the woods, plucking
here and there a wild flower, which she placed in the
matted curls of her hair. At last, coming to a little opening
in the trees, where a rude seat had been constructed,
she sat down, and commenced singing, in clear, musical
tones, the old familiar song, “Bonnie Doon.”
She was just finishing the first stanza, when she was
startled by the sound of another voice, chiming in with
hers. Springing up, she looked round for the intruder.
“Just cast those big eyes straight ahead, and you 'll
see me!” called out some one in a loud, merry tone.
Immediately Alice saw directly before her a roguish
looking, handsome boy, apparently twelve or thirteen
years of age. There was something in his air and dress
which told that he was above the common order of mountaineers.
Alice suddenly recollected having heard that a
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widow lady, with one son, had recently moved into a
pretty white cottage which stood about half a mile from
her father's, and she readily concluded that the lad before
her was Frank Seymour, whose beauty she had
heard one of her school companions extol so highly.
Her first impulse was to run, but the boy prevented her,
by saying, “I 'm Frank Seymour. I 've just moved my
mother up among these mountains. Now, who and
what are you? You are a queer looking specimen, any
way!”
Rude as this speech was, it pleased Alice, and she answered,
“I am Alice Carey, and I don't care if I am
queer looking.”
“Alice Carey, are you? That's a pretty name,” said
Frank, cracking his fingers. “Alice Carey,—oh, I know,
you are that old witch's daughter that lives in the red
house. I've heard of you. They say you are as wild as
a wild-cat,—and yet I like you.”
Alice stood for an instant as if spell-bound. Her mother
had been called an old witch, and herself a wild-cat, in
such a comical way, too, that for a time anger and mirth
strove for the mastery. The former conquered, and ere
Frank was aware of her intention, he received a blow in
his face which sent him reeling against an old tree. When
he recovered a standing posture, he observed Alice far
away in the distance, speeding it over logs and stumps,
briers and bushes, and he instantly started in pursuit. The
chase was long, for Alice ran swiftly, but gradually her
pursuer gained upon her. At length she came to a tall tree,
whose limbs grew near the ground. With a cat-like
spring she caught the lower branch, and by the time
Frank reached the tree, she was far up, near its top, cozily
sitting on one of its boughs. In her hand she held a
large worms' nest, which she had broken from the tree.
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“Hallo, there, Master Frank!” said she. “Just as
sure as you climb this tree I'll shake these worms in your
face!”
If there was any living thing Frank feared, it was a
worm, so he was obliged to give up his projected ascent.
“What a little spit-fire she is! I'll fetch her down,
though,” said he. At the same time gathering up a handful
of stones, he called out, “Miss Alice Carey, if you
don't come down, instanter, I'll stone you down.”
“Hit me if you can,” was the defiant answer.
Whizz went a stone through the air, but it missed its
mark, and fell harmlessly to the ground. We must tell
the truth, however, and say that Frank was very careful
not to hit the white, unearthly face, which gleamed amid
the dense foliage of the tree.
“Come, Alice,” said he, coaxingly, “what's the use of
being perched up there like a raccoon or hyena. Come
down, and let us make up friends, for really I do like
you.”
“You called my mother an old witch,” said Alice.
“I know I did,” answered Frank, “but I'm sorry for
it. I heard she told fortunes, and I couldn't think of any
better name. But pray come down, and I won't call her
so again.”
Alice was finally persuaded, and rapidly descending the
tree, she soon stood on the green turf beside Frank, who
now eyed her from head to foot.
“I say, Alice,” continued he, “just throw away that
odious worms' nest, and act like somebody.”
“I shall do no such thing, Master Frank,” said Alice.
“I know now that you are afraid of worms, and if you
come one inch nearer me, I'll throw some on you!”
So Frank kept at a respectful distance, but he exerted
himself to conquer Alice's evident dislike of him,
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and in five minutes' time he succeeded, for it was not in
her nature to withstand the handsome face, laughing eye,
and more than all, the droll humor of Frank.
The worms' nest was gradually forgotten, and when
Frank, pulling a book from his pocket, said, “See here,
look at my new history,” it was dropped, while Alice
drew so near to Frank that, ere the book was looked
through, his hand was resting on her shoulder, and one
of her snarled black curls lay amid his rich brown hair.
Before they parted that afternoon, they were sworn
friends, and Frank had won from Alice an invitation to
visit her mother the next day. “You may as well invite
me,” said he, “for I shall come, any way.”
That night Alice related her adventure to her mother,
and spoke of Frank in terms so extravagant, that the next
day, when he made his appearance, he met with a hearty
welcome from Aunt Polly, who was perfectly delighted
with the bright, handsome boy. After tea, he said,
“Come, Mrs. Carey, you must tell my fortune, and mind,
now, tell me a good one.”
“Frank, Frank!” said Alice, quickly.
“Well, what's wanted of Frank, Frank?” asked the
young gentleman.
“I thought you despised the whole affair. I shan't
like you if you don't,” answered Alice.
“And so I do,” said Frank; “but pity sakes, can't a
man have a little fun?”
“You're a funny man,” thought Alice, but she said nothing,
and her mother proceeded to read Frank's fortune
from the bottom of the cup. A handsome wife, who was
rich and a lady, too, was promised him. Frank waited
to hear no more; springing up, he struck the big blue
cup from the hand of the astonished Aunt Polly, who exclaimed,
“What ails the boy!”
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“What ails me?” repeated Frank; “nobody wants a
rich lady for a wife. Why didn't you promise me Alice?
I like her best of anybody, and she's handsome, too, if
she'd only comb out that squirrel's nest of hers. I say,
Alice,” continued he, “why don't you take better care
of your hair? Come to my mother's, and she'll teach
you how to curl it beautifully. Will you let her come to-morrow,
Mrs. Carey?” said he, turning to Aunt Polly.
“If you will, I will come for her, and will bring you two
teacups to pay for the one I broke. I'm sorry I did that,
but I couldn't help it.”
Aunt Polly gave her consent to the visit, and the next
day Frank joyfully introduced Alice to his mother. From
that time she was a frequent visitor at the house of Mrs.
Seymour, who was an accomplished woman, and took
great pleasure in improving the manners and education
of little Alice. Frank studied at home with his mother,
and he begged so hard that his new friend might share
his advantages, that Mrs. Seymour finally proposed to
Aunt Polly to take Alice from school and let her study
with Frank. To this plan Aunt Polly assented, and
during the next six months Alice's improvement was as
rapid as her happiness was unbounded.
CHAPTER V. WOMAN'S NATURE.
When the spring came, there was a change of teachers
in the village school. Richard Hallidon, who for twelve
years had swayed the birchen rod, was dismissed, and as
a more talented and accomplished individual was hired in
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his stead, Mrs. Seymour concluded to send Frank there
to school. Alice was his daily companion, and the intimacy
between them was a subject of much ridicule for
their companions.
Frank liked the fun of being teased about Alice, but
she always declared that her preference for him, if she had
any, arose from the fact that he was much better behaved
than the other boys. Her affection was at last put to the
test, in the following novel manner:
As she and some of her companions were one night returning
from school, they came suddenly upon a group
of boys, who were calling out, “That's it, Frank. Now
make her draw. Who-a, haw, get up, Tabby.”
Coming near, they discovered a kitten with a cord tied
round its neck. To this cord was attached Frank's dinner
basket and books. “He was tired of carrying them,”
he said, “and he meant to make kitty draw them.”
“Frank Seymour!” said Alice, indignantly, “let that
cat go, this instant.”
Frank stood irresolute. There was something in the
expression of Alice's eye which made him uncomfortable.
He thought of the worms' nest, but one of the boys called
out, “Shame, Frank; don't be afraid of her.”
So Frank again attempted to make kitty draw the basket.
In a twinkling, Alice pitched upon him. The boys
gathered round and shouted, “A fight! a fight! Now
for some fun! Give it to him, Alice! That's right, hit
him another dig!”
The contest was a hot one, and on Frank's part a bloody
one, for Alice seized his nose and wrung it until the blood
gushed out! He, however, was the strongest, and was
fast gaining the advantage. One of the girls perceived
this, and turning to her brother, said, “Bob, help Alice;
don't you see she's getting the worst of it?”
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Thus importuned, Bob fell upon Frank and belabored
him so unmercifully that Frank cried for quarter. “Shall
I let him alone, Alice?” said Bob. “I will do just as
you say.”
Alice's only answer was a fierce thrust at Bob's hair,
hands full of which were soon floating on the air, like thistles
in the autumn time.
“I declare, Alice,” said Bob's sister, “I always knew
you liked Frank, but I did not think you'd fight so like a
tiger for him.”
If this speech caused Alice any emotion, it was imperceptible,
unless it were evinced by the increased brilliancy
of her eyes, which emitted such lightning flashes, that during
their walk home Frank very modestly suggested to
her the propriety of keeping her eyes shut, while going
through the woods, lest the dried leaves and shrubs should
take fire! It is needless to say that thenceforth Frank
and Alice were suffered to fight their own battles, undisturbed
by Bob or any of his companions.
CHAPTER VI. SQUIRE HERNDON AND IRA.
Every village, however small, has its aristocrat, and
so had the little village at the foot of the mountain. At
the upper end of the principal street stood a large, handsome
building, whose high white walls, long green shutters,
granite steps, and huge brass knocker, seemed to
look down somewhat proudly upon their more humble
neighbors. To the casual visitor or passing traveler,
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this dwelling was pointed out as belonging to Squire
Herndon.
Squire Herndon was a man on whose head the frosts
of sixty winters had fallen so heavily that they had
bleached his once brown locks to a snowy whiteness. He
was one who seemed to have outlived all natural affections.
Long years had passed since he had laid the gentle wife
of his youth to rest beneath the green willow, whose
branches are now bent so low as almost to hide from view
the low, grassy mound. By the side of that grave was
another, the grave of Squire Herndon's only daughter.
She was fair and beautiful, but the destroyer came, and
one bright morning in autumn, just as the hoar frost was
beginning to touch the foliage with a brighter hue, she
passed away, and the old man's home was again desolate.
Some of the villagers said of him in his affliction, “It's
surely a judgment from heaven, to pay him for being so
proud, and may be it will do him good;” but Squire
Herndon was one whose morose nature adversity rendered
still more sour.
He had yet one child left, Ira, his first-born and only
son. On him his hopes were henceforth centered. Ira
should marry some wealthy heiress, and thus the family
name would not become extinct. Squire Herndon belonged
to an English family, which was probably descended
from one of those “three brothers who came
over from England” long time ago! He was proud of
his ancestors, proud of his wealth, his house, servants,
and grounds, and had been proud of his daughter, but
she was gone; and now he was proud of Ira, whom he
tried to make generally disagreeable to the villagers.
But this he could not do, for Ira possessed too many
of the social qualities of his mother to be very proud
and arrogant. At length the time came when he entered
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college at Amherst. During his collegiate course, he became
acquainted with a beautiful and accomplished girl,
named Mary Calvert. That acquaintance soon ripened
into love, and Squire Herndon was one day startled by a
letter from Ira, saying that he was about to offer himself
to a Miss Calvert, with whom he knew his father would
be pleased.
This so enraged Squire Herndon, that, without stopping
to read more, he threw the letter aside, and for the next
half hour paced his apartment, stamping, puffing, and
foaming like a caged lion. At last it occurred to him that
he had not read all his son's letter, so catching it up, he
read it through, and found added as a postscript, the following
clause: “I forgot to tell you that Mary's father is
very wealthy, and she is his only child.”
This announcement changed the old squire at once;
his feelings underwent an entire revolution, and he now
regretted that Ira had not written that he had proposed
and was accepted. “But,” thought the squire, “of
course she 'll accept him; she cannot refuse such a boy as
Ira.”
And yet she did! With many tears she confessed her
love, but said that far away over the seas was one to
whom she had been betrothed almost from childhood; he
was kind and noble, and until she saw Ira Herndon, she
had thought she loved him. Said she, “I have given him
so many assurances that I would be his, that I cannot recall
them. I love you, Ira, far better, but I esteem Mr.
S., and respect myself so much that I cannot break my
word.” No argument of Ira's could induce her to
change her resolution, and a few days before he was
graduated, he saw his Mary, with a face white as marble,
pronounce the vows which bound her to another.
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CHAPTER VII. ALICE'S MOTHER.
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Three years after the closing incidents of the last chapter,
Ira was practicing law near the eastern boundary of
the state of New York. From his office windows he frequently
noticed a beautiful young girl of not more than sixteen
summers, who passed and repassed every day to and
from school. Her plain calico frock, coarse linen apron,
and cambric sun-bonnet, showed that she was not a child
of wealth, and yet there was something about her face
and appearance strangely fascinating to the young lawyer.
He at length became acquainted with her, and found
that her name was Lucy Edwards, that she was the adopted
child of the family with whom she lived, and also the
half sister of the famous Aunt Polly, among the mountains.
Ira fancied that she resembled Mary Calvert, who
was now lost to him forever, and ere he was aware of it,
he was forming plans for the future, in all of which the
young Lucy played a conspicuous part. Before the summer
was over, he had asked her to be his wife. She gave
her consent willingly, for she was ambitious, and had long
sighed for something better than the humble home in
which her childhood had been passed.
When next Ira visited his father, he was accompanied
by Lucy, who was intending to spend several days with
her sister. On parting with her at the hotel, he told her
that the day following he would seek an interview with
his father, to whom he would acknowledge their engagement,
and ask him to sanction their union. Of that interview
between father and son, we will speak but little.
Suffice it to say, that Squire Herndon, in his rage, almost
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cursed his son for presuming to think of a poor, humble
girl, whose sister disgraced her sex by telling fortunes,
and finished his abuse by swearing to disinherit Ira the
moment he should hear of his marrying Lucy Edwards.
Ira knew his father too well to think of softening
him by argument, so he rushed from his presence, and
was soon on his way to the red house among the mountains,
where Lucy was anxiously watching for him.
As soon as she saw him coming up the mountain path,
she ran eagerly to meet him. At one glance she saw that
something was wrong, and urged him to tell her the
worst. In as few words as possible, he related to her
what had passed between himself and his father. When
he finished speaking, Lucy burst into tears, and said
mournfully, “And so you will leave me, Ira? I might
have known it would be so.”
Ira was touched, and laying his hand on Lucy's dark
locks, he vowed that she should be his, even at the cost
of his father's curse. When they reached the gate, Lucy
said, “I forgot to tell you that Polly has company—the
Quakeress, Dolly Dutton—but you need not mind her.”
After entering the house, Aunt Polly gradually led Ira
to speak of the interview between himself and his father.
By the time he had finished, Mrs. Carey's wrath was waxing
warmer and warmer.
“Ira Herndon,” she exclaimed, “you are cowardly if
you do not show your independence by marrying whom
you please.”
“I intend to marry Lucy at some future time,” answered
Ira.
“Fudge on some future time!” was Aunt Polly's
scornful answer; “why not marry her now? You 'll
never have a better time. We'll all keep it a secret, so
your old father will not cut you off. Amos will go for
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Parson Landon, who will not blab; and here to-night we
will have the knot tied. What say you?”
Ira hesitated. He did not care about being married so
hurriedly, and could he have considered until the morrow,
he probably would have withstood all temptation;
but as it was, he was overruled, and finally gave his consent
that the ceremony should take place that night.
Parson Landon was accordingly sent for, and ere Ira had
time to think what he was doing, he was the husband of
Lucy Edwards, Mr. and Mrs. Carey and Dolly Dutton
alone witnessing the ceremony. When it was completed,
Aunt Polly said, “Now we must all keep this a secret,
for if it comes to Squire Herndon's ear, he 'll sartingly
cut 'm off.”
The minister and Dolly readily promised silence, but
Ira said “he cared not a farthing whether his father
knew it or not, and thought seriously of telling him all.”
This announcement was received by Aunt Polly with
such a burst of indignation, and by Lucy with such a
gush of tears, that Ira was glad to promise that he, too,
would say nothing on the subject; but the painful thought
entered his mind, that possibly Lucy had married him
more from a love of wealth than from love to him.
In a few days he returned to the village where they
resided, leaving Lucy with her sister for a time. At
length he decided to remove to the village of C., in the
western part of New York, where Lucy soon joined him.
Here Alice was born. When she was about six months
old, her father received a very lucrative offer, the acceptance
of which required that he should go to India. For
himself, he did not hesitate, but his wife and child needed
his protection. To take the infant Alice to that hot
clime, was to insure her death, and he had no wish that
Lucy should remain behind.
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In this extremity, Lucy thought of Aunt Polly, and
proposed that Alice should be left with her. After much
consultation, Aunt Polly was written to, and, as she consented
to take the child, Lucy started with Alice to place
her under Mrs. Carey's care. When within a mile of the
village, she directed the stage driver to let her alight;
she did not wish to pass through the village, but, striking
into a circuitous path, she soon reached Uncle Amos'
house unobserved, save by the man and woman whom we
mentioned in our second chapter.
Aunt Polly regularly received remittances from Mr.
Herndon for the support of his child, of whom he always
spoke with much affection. Lucy, weak and frivolous in
her nature, felt constrained to manifest some love for her
offspring, but it was evident to Aunt Polly that she was
heartily glad to be relieved of the care of little Alice.
When Alice was five years of age, there came a letter
bearing an ominous seal of black. With a trembling hand
Aunt Polly opened it, and, as she had feared, learned that
her young and beautiful sister, at the early age of twenty-two,
was sleeping the sleep of death, far off, 'neath the
tropical skies of India. That night the motherless Alice
looked wonderingly into the face of Aunt Polly, whose
tears fell thick and fast, as she clasped the awe-stricken
child to her bosom, and said, “You are mine forever,
now.” Alice remembered this in after years, and wept
over the death of a mother whom she never knew.
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CHAPTER VIII. THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
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Fieteen years had flown on rapid wing since Alice became
an inmate of the old red house among the mountains.
As yet she had no suspicion that she was other
than the child of Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly. Under
their guardianship, and the watchful supervision of Mrs.
Seymour, she had grown into a tall, beautiful girl of fifteen.
The childish predilection which she had early
shown for Frank, had now ripened into a stronger feeling,
and, although she would scarcely acknowledge it, even to
herself, there was not, in all the wide world, an individual
who possessed so much influence over the shrinking,
timid mountain girl, as did Frank, who was now verging
on to eighteen.
Some changes have taken place since we last looked
upon the boy and girl, but we will again introduce them
to our readers, at the respective ages of eighteen and fifteen.
It was a mild September afternoon. The long line
of mountain tops was enveloped by a blue, hazy mist,
while the dense green of the towering forest trees was
interspersed here and there by leaflets of a brighter hue,
betokening the gradual but sure approach of nature's sad
decay.
In the little vine-wreathed portico of Uncle Amos'
house, are seated our old friends, Frank and Alice. He
has changed much since we last saw him, and were it not
for the same roguish twinkle of his hazel eyes, we should
hardly recognize the mischievous school-boy, Frank, in
the tall, handsome youth before us. During the last year
he has been in college, but his vacations have all been
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spent at home, and as his mother half reprovingly said,
“three-fourths of his time was devoted to Alice.”
The afternoon of which we are speaking had been spent
by them alone, for Aunt Polly was visiting in the village.
Frank was just wishing she would delay her coming until
nine o'clock, when she was seen hurrying toward the
house at an astonishingly rapid rate for her, for she was
rather asthmatic.
As soon as she had reached home, and found breath to
speak, she said, “Alice, did you know your—did you know
Squire Herndon's son Ira had come home from the Indies?”
“Yes, I heard so to-day,” said Alice quietly, “and I'm
glad, too, for 'twill cheer up his father, who is sick, and
seems very lonely and unhappy.”
“He ought to be lonely,” said Frank. “In my opinion
he is a hard old customer; and yet I always speak to
the old gentleman when I meet him, for he is very respectful
to me. But is n't it queer, mother will never let
me say a word against the old squire. I sometimes tease
her by saying that she evidently intends, sometime, to
become Mrs. Herndon. If she does, you and I, Alice,
will be Herndons too.”
Alice was about to reply, when Aunt Polly prevented
her by saying, “I can tell you, Mr. Seymour, that Alice
will be a Herndon before your mother is.”
Alice looked wonderingly at Aunt Polly, while Frank
said, “Which will she marry, the old squire, or the returned
Indian! Let me fix it. Alice marry the squire—
my mother marry his son, and then Alice will be my
grandmother?”
He was rattling on, when Aunt Polly stopped him, and
going up to Alice, she wound her arms about her, and in
trembling tones said, “Alice, my child, my darling, you
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must forgive me for having deceived you so. You are
not my child!”
“Not your child!” said Alice, wildly.
“Not your child!” echoed Frank, starting up.
“Whose child is she, then? Speak; tell us quickly!”
“Her father is Ira Herndon, and her mother was my
half sister, Lucy,” answered Aunt Polly.
Heavily the yielding form of Alice sank into the arms
of Frank, who bore the fainting girl into the house, and
placed her upon the lounge. Then turning to Aunt Polly,
he said, “Is what you have told us true? and does Mr.
Herndon own his daughter?”
“It's all true as the gospel,” answered Mrs. Carey,
and Mr. Herndon is coming this night to see her.”
Frank pressed one kiss on Alice's white lips, and then
hurried away. Bitter thoughts were crowding upon him
and choking his utterance. Why was he so affected?
Was he sorry that Alice belonged to the proud race of
Herndons,—that wealth and family distinction were suddenly
placed before her? Yes, he was sorry, for now was
he fearful that his treasure would be snatched from him.
He understood the haughty pride of Squire Herndon,
and he feared that his son, too, might be like him, and
refuse his Alice to one so obscure as Frank fancied himself
to be.
On reaching home, he rushed into the little parlor in
which his mother was sitting, and throwing himself upon
the sofa, exclaimed passionately, “Mother, I do not wish
to return to college. It is of no use for me to try to be
anything, now.”
“Why, Frank,” said his mother, in much alarm, “what
has happened to disturb you?”
“Enough has happened,” answered Frank, “Alice is
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rich,—an heiress; and, worse than all, she is old Squire
Herndon's grand-daughter!”
“Squire Herndon's grand-daughter!” repeated Mrs.
Seymour, “How can that be?”
“Why, she is Mr. Ira Herndon's daughter, and he has
come to claim her,” said Frank.
White as marble grew the cheek and forehead of Mrs.
Seymour, and her voice was thick and indistinct, as she
said, “Ira Herndon come home,—and Alice's father too?”
Frank darted to her side, exclaiming, “Why, mother,
what is the matter? You are as cold and white as Alice
was when they told her. Are you, too, Ira Herndon's
daughter?”
“No, no,” said Mrs. Seymour, “but I know Mr. Herndon
well. Do not ask me more now. Be satisfied when
I tell you that if he is the same man he used to be, you
need have no fears for Alice. Now leave me; I would
be alone.”
Frank obeyed, wondering much what had come over
his mother. Does the reader wonder, too? Have you
not suspected that Mrs. Seymour was the Mary Calvert,
who, years ago, gave her hand to one, while her heart
belonged to Ira Herndon? Her story is soon told. She
had respected her husband, and had struggled hard to
conquer her love for one whom it were a sin to think of
now. In a measure she succeeded, and when, four years
after her marriage, she stood by the open grave of her
husband, she was a sincere mourner, for now she was
alone in the world, her father having been dead some
time. He had died insolvent, and when her husband's
estate was settled, it was found that there was just
enough property left to support herself and son comfortably.
A few years after, she chanced to be traveling through
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the western part of the state, and curiosity led her to
the village where she knew Squire Herndon resided.
She was pleased with the romantic situation of the place,
and learning that the neat, white cottage among the
mountains was for sale, she purchased it, and soon after
removed thither. This, then, was the history of the woman
whose frame shook with so much emotion at the mention
of Ira Herndon.
CHAPTER IX. FATHER AND CHILD.
Night had settled around the old red house among the
mountains, where Alice was listening eagerly, while Aunt
Polly recounted the incidents we have already related.
Suddenly a shadow darkened the casement, through which
the moon was pouring a flood of silvery light. A heavy
footfall echoed on the little piazza, and in a moment Ira
Herndon stood within the room, transfixed with surprise
at the beautiful vision which Aunt Polly presented to him,
saying, “This is Alice, your daughter. I have loved her
as my own; but take her,—she is yours.”
Something of Alice's old timidity returned, and she
was half inclined to spring through the open door, but
when she ventured at length to lift her eyes to the face
of the tall, fine looking man before her, a thrill of joy
and pride ran through her heart, and twining her soft,
white arms around the stranger's neck, she murmured,
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“Am I, indeed, your daughter,—and may I call you
father?”
“God bless you, Alice, my child, my daughter,” was
the answer, as Ira folded his newly found treasure to his
bosom. At that moment Uncle Amos entered, and saw
at a glance how matters stood. Tear after tear rolled
down his sun-burnt cheek, as taking the hard hand of his
faithful old wife, he said, “Yes, Polly, she will love him
and go with him, and we shall be left alone in our old
age.”
Alice released herself from her father's embrace, and
going up to the weeping old man, fondly caressed him,
saying, “I will always love you, and call you father, too,
for a kind, devoted parent you have been to me for fifteen
years, when I knew no other.”
“Nor need you ever be separated,” said Mr. Herndon,
“if you will go with Alice. I have wealth enough for us
all, and will gladly share it with you.”
To this generous offer Mr. and Mrs. Carey made no reply,
and Ira continued: “I have to-day told my father
all, and I regret I did not do so years ago.”
“What did he say?” asked Aunt Polly, quickly.
“He said not a word, save that he wished he had
known it before,” answered Mr. Herndon. “He seems
quite ill, and I am fearful his days are numbered.”
At a late hour that night Mr. Herndon took leave of
his daughter, promising to introduce her to her grandfather
as soon as possible.
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CHAPTER X. THE OLD MAN'S DEATH-BED.
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High up in one of the lofty chambers of the Herndon
mansion, an old man lay dying. What mattered it now,
that the bedstead on which he lay was of the costliest
mahogany, or the sheets of the finest linen! Death was
there, waiting eagerly for his expected victim. Memory
was busily at work, and far back through a long era
of by-gone years, arose a dark catalogue of sin, which
made the sick man shudder as he tossed from side to side
in his feverish delirium. “Away, away,” he would shout,
with maniacal frenzy. “I did not turn you all from my
door. I only told my servants to do it. And you, starving,
weeping women, I only did what thousands have
done when I sold your all, and imprisoned your husbands
for debt. Away! I say. Don't taunt me with it now.”
Then his manner would soften, and he would call out,
“But stay,—is it money you want? Take it;—take all
I've got, and let that atone for the past.”
At this juncture Ira entered the room, on his return
from visiting his daughter. He was greatly alarmed at
the change in his father, but learning that a physician had
been sent for, he sat down, and endeavored to soothe his
father's excitement. He succeeded, and when the physician
arrived, he found his patient sleeping quietly.
From this sleep, however, he soon awoke, fully restored
to consciousness.
Turning to his son, he said, “Ira, did n't you tell me
she was your child?”
Mr. Herndon answered in the affirmative, and the old
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man continued: “I would see her ere I die. Send for
her quickly, for the morning will not find me here.”
Ira arose to do his father's bidding, when he added,
“And, Ira, I must make my will; send for the proper
persons, will you?”
Ira saw that his father's orders were executed, and then
returned to his bedside to await the coming of Alice.
She was aroused from a sound sleep, and told that her
grandfather was dying, and would see her. Hurriedly
dressing herself, she was soon on her way to the village.
As she entered her grandfather's house, she looked
around her in amazement at the splendor which surrounded
her.
As she advanced into the sick-room, Squire Herndon
fixed his dark, bright eye upon her, and said, “Alice,
they tell me you are my grand-daughter; I would I had
known it before; but come nearer to me now, and let me
bless you.”
Alice knelt by the bedside of the white-haired man,
whose hand was laid amid her silken curls, as he uttered
a blessing upon the fair young girl. When she arose, he
said to his son, “Now I must make my will. Call in the
lawyer.”
The words caught Alice's ear, and involuntarily she
sprang back to her grandfather, and kissing his feverish
brow, said, “Dear grandpa, I wish I could tell you something,—
could ask you something.”
“What is it, my child?” asked her grandfather. “Let
me know your request, and it shall be granted.”
Alice blushed deeply, for she felt that her father's eye
was upon her, but she unhesitatingly said, “You have
seen Frank, grandfather,—you know him?”
“Yes, yes,” said the squire. “I know him and like
him, too. I understand you, Alice; I will do right.”
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Alice again kissed him, and then quitted the apartment,
in which, for the next half hour, was heard the scratchings
of the lawyer's pen, and the faint tones of the dying
one, as he dictated his will.
CHAPTER XI. THE RECOGNITION.
Softly from the rosy east came the glorious king of
day, shedding light and warmth over hill and dale, river
and streamlet, tree and shrub. In the same room where
he had passed away, Squire Herndon lay in a long, eternal
sleep. The servants held their breath, and whispered
as they trod softly through the darkened rooms, as if
fearful of disturbing the deep slumbers of the dead.
The villagers met together, and their voices were subdued,
as they said, one to the other, “Squire Herndon is
dead.” Yes, Squire Herndon was dead, and little children
paused in their play as the solemn peal of the village
bell rang out on the clear autumn air, wakening the
echoes of the tall blue mountains, and dying away down
the bright green valley. The knell was repeated again
and again, and then came the strokes, louder, faster, and
the children counted until they were tired, for seventy-five
years had the old man numbered. At length the
sounds ceased, and the children went on with their noisy
sports, forgetful that death was among them.
In the Herndon mansion many whispered consultations
were held, as to how the body should be arranged for
burial. It was finally decided to send for Mrs. Seymour.
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“She is tasty and genteel,” said one, “and knows how
such things should be done.”
Mrs. Seymour did not refuse, for she felt it her duty to
go; and yet she would much rather have braved the
storm of battle than enter that house. She, however,
bade the messenger return, saying she would soon follow.
When alone with her thoughts, she for an instant wavered.
How could she go? How again stand face to face with
the only man she ever loved? Yet she did go, trusting
that nineteen years had so changed her that she would
not be recognized.
Under her directions, everything about the house was
done so quietly, that there was nothing to grate on the
ear of him who sat alone in the large, silent parlor. He
intuitively felt that some kindred spirit was at work there,
and calling Alice to him, he asked “who the lady was
that seemed to be superintending affairs so well.”
“Mrs. Seymour,” answered Alice.
“Mrs. Seymour,” repeated her father, as if dreamily
trying to recall some past event.
“Yes, Mrs. Seymour,” said Alice. “She is Frank's
mother, and a widow.”
In an adjoining room, Mrs. Seymour, with a beating
heart, listened to the tones of that voice which she had
never hoped to hear again. Earnestly did she wish to
see the face of one whose very voice could affect her so
powerfully. Her wish was gratified, for at that moment
Alice opened the door, and Mrs. Seymour's eyes fell upon
the features of him whose remembrance she had so long
cherished. She was somewhat disappointed, for the tropical
suns of fifteen years had embrowned his once white
forehead, and a few gray hairs mingled with the dark
locks which lay around his brow.
Alice was surprised at the wild, passionate embrace
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which Mrs. Seymour gave her, as leading her to the window,
she looked wistfully in her face, and said, “My dear
Alice, tenfold more my child than ever.”
Alarmed at the increased paleness of her friend, Alice
started forward, and said, “You are sick, faint, Mrs. Seymour.
Let me call Mr. Herndon,—I mean my father.”
But Mrs. Seymour was not faint, and she endeavored
to prevent Alice from calling her father, but in vain. Alice
called him, and he came. His daughter stood in front
of Mrs. Seymour, whose cheeks glowed and whose eyes
sparkled with the intensity of her feelings, as she met the
scarching glance of Ira Herndon.
He recognized her,—knew, as if by instinct, that he
again beheld Mary Calvert; but the fever of youth no
longer burned in his veins, so he did nothing foolish. He
merely grasped her hand, exclaiming, “Mary—Mary Calvert, —
Mrs. Seymour! God be praised, we have met
again!”
CHAPTER XII. THE FUNERAL.
Two days passed. The third came, and again over hill
and valley floated a funeral knell. Groups of villagers
moved with slow and measured tread toward the late residence
of Squire Herndon. Forth from many a mountain
cottage and many a village dwelling came the inhabitants,
old and young, rich and poor, to attend the funeral.
On a marble-topped table stood the rich, mahogany
coffin, in which lay the remains of one who for many
years had excited the admiration, envy, jealousy, and
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hatred of the people, many of whom now trod those spacious
halls for the first time in their lives. Near the coffin
sat Ira. At him the villagers gazed anxiously, but
their eyes soon moved on until they rested upon the fair
Alice, who had been so suddenly transformed from the
humble mountain girl into the wealthy heiress.
Uncle Amos and Aunt Polly were there, too. Ira had
kindly and thoughtfully invited them to take seats with
himself and daughter, as mourners for the deceased.
Aunt Polly appeared arrayed in a dress of costly black
silk, and shawl of the same texture. They were the gift
of Ira, and for fear of being disputed, we will not tell how
many times the good lady managed to move so that the
rustle of her garments might be heard by her neighbors,
who remarked, that “Aunt Polly seemed a plaguy sight
more stuck up than Alice;” and yet the benevolent matron
looked down complacently upon them, thinking how
kind and amiable she was, not to feel above them!
At last the funeral services were over. Down one
street and up another moved the long line of carriages and
people on foot, to the grave-yard, where was an open
grave, into which the body was lowered, “earth to earth,
ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”
As the company were leaving the church-yard, Alice
suddenly found herself by the side of Frank. She had
seen him but once before since her grandfather's death,
and then she had won from him a promise that after the
funeral he would return with her to what henceforth
would be her home. She now reminded him of his promise,
at the same time introducing him to her father, whom
she observed closely, to see what impression Frank would
make. It was favorable, for no one could look at Frank
and dislike him. Rather unwillingly he consented to
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accompany them home. He could not imagine what Alice
wanted of him, but was not long kept in doubt.
The will of Squire Herndon was soon produced and read.
The old man had intended to bequeath most of his property
to his son, but this Ira would not suffer. He had
more than he knew what to do with, already, he said, and
greatly preferred that his father should give it all to Alice,
or divide it between her and Frank, as he saw proper.
Accordingly, after bestowing twenty-five thousand dollars
in charitable purposes, the remainder of his property,
amounting to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars, was
equally divided between Frank and Alice, Ira being appointed
their guardian.
Frank at first declined the wealth so unexpectedly
placed before him, but Alice and her father finally overruled
him, the latter saying, playfully, “You may as well
take as a gift from the grandfather what you would probably
sometime receive with the grand-daughter.” So
Frank was finally persuaded; but he bore his fortune
meekly, and when next he returned to college, no one
would have suspected that he was the heir of seventy-five
thousand dollars.
CHAPTER XIII. “ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL. ”
Not long after Frank returned to college, Alice, also,
was sent to Troy, N. Y., to complete her education.
Soon after she left, her father invited Mr. and Mrs. Carey
to share with him his house, but they had good sense
enough to know that they would be far happier in their
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own mountain home, so Ira settled upon them an annuity
for the remainder of their lives.
When the warm sun of an early spring had melted the
ice from the brooks and the snow from off the hillside, there
was a wedding at the little white cottage. Parson Landon
again officiated, and Ira Herndon was the bridegroom,
but the bride this time was our friend, Mrs. Seymour,
whose face, always handsome, seemed suddenly renovated
with a youthful bloom and loveliness. Aunt Polly, too,
was present, and declared that the ceremony gave her
more satisfaction than did the one which took place seventeen
years before, beneath her own roof. After the
wedding, Mrs. Seymour, now Mrs. Herndon, removed to
her husband's home in the village. The villagers hailed
her presence among them as a new era, in which they
could hope occasionally to visit at the “great house,” as
they were in the habit of calling Squire Herndon's former
residence.
We now pass rapidly over a period of little more than
three years, during which time Frank was graduated, with
honor, of course, and returning home, commenced the
study of law. We next open the scene on a bright evening
in October, in which the little village at the foot of
the mountain was in a state of great excitement. This
excitement was not manifest in the streets, but in-doors,
band-boxes were turned inside out, drawers upside down,
as daughter and mother tried the effect of caps, ribbons,
flowers, &c.
The cause of all the commotion was this: It was the
bridal night of Alice Herndon, at whose request nearly all
the villagers were invited to be present. At eight o'clock
she descended to the crowded parlors, and in a few moments
the words were spoken which transformed her
from Alice Herndon into Alice Seymour.
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But little more remains to be said. Alice and Frank
resided at home, with their parents, who had gained the
respect and love of the villagers by their many unostentatious
acts of kindness and real benevolence. And now,
lest some curious reader should travel to New England
for the purpose of discovering whether this story really
be true, we will say that the events here narrated occurred
so long ago that there is probably nothing left save
the cellar and well to mark the spot where once stood
“the old red house among the mountains.”
-- -- p598-278
Glen's Creek.
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CHAPTER I. REMINISCENCES.
O'er Lake Erie's dark, deep waters,—across Ohio's
broad, rich lands, and still onward, among the graceful
forest trees, gushing springs, and fertile plains of Kentucky,
rests in quiet beauty, the shady hillside, bright
green valley, and dancing waterbrook, known as Glen's
Creek. No stately spire or glittering dome point out the
spot to the passing traveler, but under the shadow of the
lofty trees, stands a large brick edifice, which has been
consecrated to the worship of God. There, each Sabbath,
together congregate the old and young, the lofty and the
lowly, bond and free, and the incense which from that altar
ascends to heaven is not the less pure, because in that
secluded spot the tones of the Sabbath bell never yet were
heard. Not far from the old brick church are numerous,
time stained grave-stones, speaking to the living of the
pale dead ones, who side by side lie sleeping, unmindful
of the wintry storm or summer's fervid heat.
A little farther down the hill, and near the apple tree,
whose apples never get ripe, stands a low white building,—
the school house of Glen's Creek. There, for several
years, “Yankee schoolmasters,” one after another, have
tried by turns the effect of moral suasion, hickory sticks,
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and leathern straps on the girls and boys who there assemble,
some intent upon mastering the mysteries of the
Latin reader, and others thinking wistfully of the miniature
mill-dam and fish-pond in the brook at the foot of the
hill, or of the play-house under the maple tree, where the
earthens are each day washed in the little “tin bucket,”
which serves the treble purpose of dinner-pail, wash-bowl,
and drinking-cup.
But not with Glen's Creek as it now is has our story
aught to do, although few have been the changes since, in
the times long gone, the Indian warrior sought shelter
from the sultry August sun, 'neath the boughs of the shady
buckeye or towering honey locust, which so thickly stud
the hillside of Glen's Creek. Then, as now, the first
spring violet blossomed there, and the earliest crocus grew
near the stream whose waters sang as mournfully to the
dusky maiden of the forest, as they since have to the fair
daughter of the pale-face.
The incidents about to be narrated are believed to have
taken place near the commencement of the nineteenth
century, when the country of Kentucky, from Lexington
to Louisville, was one entire forest, and when, instead of
the planter's handsome dwelling, now so common, there
was only the rude log hut surrounded, perhaps, by a few
acres of half cleared land. Brave, indeed, must have been
the heart of the hardy yeoman, who, forsaking the home
of his fathers, went forth into the wilds of Kentucky, and
there, amid dangers innumerable, laid the foundation of
the many handsome towns which now dot the surface of
that fair state. Woman, too, timid, shrinking woman,
was there, and in moments of the most appalling danger,
the daring courage she displayed equaled that shown by
her husband, father and brother. Often on the still midnight
air rang out the fearful war-cry, speaking of torture
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and death to the inmates of the rude dwelling, whose
flames, rising high over the tree tops, warned some other
lonely settler that the enemy was upon his track.
But spite of all dangers and difficulties, the tide of emigration
poured steadily in upon Kentucky, until where
once the Indian hunter and wild beast held undisputed
sway, there may now be seen fertile gardens and cultivated
fields, handsome towns and flourishing cities.
CHAPTER II. DEACON WILDER.
Brightly looked forth the stars on one February night,
while the pale moon, yet in its first quarter, hung in the
western sky, illuminating as far as was possible the little
settlement of P—, Virginia. In a large square building,
the house of Deacon Wilder, there was a prayer
meeting, consisting mostly of members from “the first
families in Virginia.”
In this meeting Deacon Wilder took a prominent part,
although there was an unusually mournful cadence in the
tones of his voice; and twice during the reading of the
psalm was he obliged to stop for the purpose of wiping
from his eyes two large tear-drops, which seemed sadly
out of place on the broad, good-humored face of the deacon.
Other eyes there were, too, on whose long lashes
the heavy moisture glistened, and whose faces told of
some sad event, which either had happened or was about
to happen. The cause of all this sorrow was this: Ere
the night for the weekly prayer meeting again came,
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Deacon Wilder and his family, who were universally liked,
would be far on the road toward a home in the dense forests
of Kentucky. In that old-fashioned kitchen were
many who had come long, weary miles for the sake of
again shaking the deacon's hand, and again telling his
gentle wife how surely their hearts would go with her to
her home in the far west.
The meeting proceeded decently and in order, as meetings
should, until near its close, when Deacon Wilder, for
the last time, lifted up his voice in prayer with the loved
friends and neighbors he was leaving. At this point, the
grief of the little company burst forth unrestrainedly. The
white portion of the audience gave vent to their feelings
in tears and half smothered sobs, while the blacks, of
whom there was a goodly number present, manifested
their sorrow by groans and loud lamentations.
Among these was an old negro named Cato, who, together
with his wife Dillah, had formerly belonged to
Deacon Wilder's father, but on his death they had passed
into the possession of the oldest son, Capt. Wilder, who
lived within a stone's throw of his brother. Old Cato
was decidedly a Methodist in practice, and when in the
course of his prayer Deacon Wilder mentioned that in all
human probability he should never on earth meet them
again, old Cato, who was looked upon as a pillar by his
colored brethren, forgetting in the intensity of his feelings
the exact form of words which he wanted, fervently ejaculated,
“Thank the Lord!” after which Dillah, his wife,
uttered a hearty “Amen!”
This mistake in the choice of words was a slight setback
to the deacon, who was feeling, perhaps, a trifle
gratified at seeing himself so generally regretted. But
Cato and Dillah were a well-meaning couple, and their
mistake passed unnoticed, save by the young people, who
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smiled a little mischievously. The meeting continued until
a late hour, and the hands of the long Dutch clock
pointed the hour of midnight, ere the windows of Deacon
Wilder's dwelling were darkened, and its inmates were
dreaming, may be, of a home where good-bys and partings
were unknown.
Next morning, long before the sun had dallied with the
east until over its gray cheek the blushes of daylight were
stealing, the deacon's family were astir. Fires were lighted
in the fire-place, candles were lighted in the candlesticks,
and breakfast was swallowed in a space of time altogether
too short for the credulity of modern dyspeptics. Then
commenced the exciting process of “pulling down” and
“packing up.” Bedsteads were knocked endwise, bed-clothes
were thrown all ways, crockery was smashed, and
things generally were put where there was no possible
danger of their being found again for one twelve-month.
Deacon Wilder scolded, his wife Sally scolded, old Cato
and Dillah, who had come over to superintend matters,
scolded, the other negroes ran against each other and
every way, literally doing nothing except “'clarin' they's
fit to drap, they's so tired,” while George, the deacon's
oldest son, looked on, quietly whistling “Yankee Doodle.”
In the midst of all this hubbub, little Charlie, a bright,
beautiful, but delicate boy of nine summers, crept away
to the foot of the garden, and there, on a large stone under
a tall sugar maple, his face buried in his hands, he
wept bitterly. Poor Charlie! he was taking his first lesson
in home-sickness, even before his childhood's home
had disappeared from view. He had always been opposed
to emigrating to Kentucky, which, in his mind, was all
“dark, dark woods,” where each member of the family
would be tomahawked by the Indians every day, at least,
if not oftener.
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But Charlie's tears were unavailing,—the old homestead
was sold, the preparations were nearly completed,
and in a few hours he would bid good-by to the places he
loved so well. “I shall never sit under this tree again,”
said the weeping boy, “never again play in the dear old
brook; and when I die there, I shall be afraid to lie alone
in the dark woods, and there will be none but our folks
to cry for me, either.”
A soft footstep sounded near, two little arms were
wound round Charlie's neck, and a childish voice whispered,
“Oh, Charlie, Charlie, I will cry when I hear you
are dead, and if you will send for me before you die, I
will surely come.”
It was Ella, his cousin. She was a year his junior, and
since his earliest remembrance she had been the object of
his deepest affection. Together they had played in the
forest shade, together in the garden had they made their
flower beds, and together had they mourned over torn
dresses, lost mittens, bumped heads, nettle stings, and so
forth. It is not altogether improbable that Charlie's grief
arose partly from the fact that Ella must be left behind.
He had always been delicate, and had frequently talked
to Ella of dying, so that she readily believed him when he
told her he should die in Kentucky; she believed, too,
that she should see him again ere he died. Did she believe
aright? The story will tell you, but I shall not.
-- 279 -- p598-284
CHAPTER III. CATO AND DILLAH.
[figure description] Page 279.[end figure description]
Everything was in readiness except the little wagon
which was to convey the best looking-glass, the stuffed
rocking chair, Mrs. Wilder, and Charlie. On an old
stump near the gate sat Aunt Dillah, industriously wiping
the tears from her dusky cheeks, and ever and anon exclaiming,
“'Pears like I could bar it better, if I was gwine
with them.”
This remark was overheard by her master, Capt. Wilder.
He had frequently heard Cato express the same
wish, and thought it quite natural, too, inasmuch as Jake,
their only child, was to accompany the deacon. For a
moment the captain stood irresolute. We will not say
what thoughts passed through his mind, but after a time
he turned away and went in quest of his brother. There
was a short consultation, and then Capt. Wilder, returning
to Dillah, laid his hand on her shoulder, and said,
“Aunt Dillah, would it please you and Cato to go to Kentucky,
and be killed by the Indians along with Jake?”
“Lord bless you, marster, that it would,” said Dillah,
rolling up her eyes till only the whites were visible.
“Very well, you can go,” was Capt. Wilder's reply.
By this time old Cato and Jake had gathered near, and
the “Lord bless you's” which they poured in upon the
captain sent him into the house, out of sight and hearing.
But Dillah had no time to lose. Her goods and chattels
must be picked up, and old Cato's Sunday shirt must be
wrung out of the rinsing water, Dillah declaring, “she
could kind o'shake it out and dry it on the road!” While
putting up her things, the old creature frequently
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lamented the unfortunate fact, that the new gown given her last
Christmas by “old Miss,” was not made, “for,” said she,
“I shall want to look toppin' and smart-like amongst the
folks in Kentuck.”
“Ain't no folks thar,” said Jake; but as often as he
repeated this assertion, Aunt Dillah answered, “Now and
then one, I reckon, 'less why should marster tote the
whole on us out thar.”
“For the Injuns to eat, I s'pose,” answered Jake, and
then he went through with a short rehearsal of what his
mother would say, and how she would yell, when one of
the natives got her in his grip. Little Ella wept passionately
when she learned that Dillah, too, was going, but
when Charlie, stealing up to her, said, “she will take care
of me,” her tears were dried, and her last words to Dillah
were, “Be kind to Charlie till he dies.”
Sweet Ella, it would seem that a foreshadowing of the
future had fallen around her, for when at last Charlie's
farewell kiss was warm upon her cheek, her voice was
cheerful, as she said, “You will send for me and I shall
surely come.” Could she have known how long and wearisome
were the miles, how dark and lonely was the wood,
and how full of danger was the road which lay between
herself and Charlie's future home, she might not have been
so sure that they would meet again.
One after another the wagons belonging to Deacon
Wilder passed down the narrow road, and were lost to
view in the deep forest which stretched away to the west
as far as the eye could reach. Here for a short time we
will leave them, while we introduce to our readers another
family, whose fortunes are closely interwoven with our
first party.
-- 281 -- p598-286
CHAPTER IV. THE GORTONS.
[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
Five years prior to the emigration of Deacon Wilder,
Mr. Gorton, a former neighbor, had, with his family, removed
to Kentucky, and found a home near Lexington.
Around his fireside in Virginia once had gathered three
young children, Robert, Madeline and Marian. Robert,
the eldest, was not Mr. Gorton's son, but the child of a
sister, Mrs. Hunting, who on her death-bed had bequeathed
her only boy to the care of her brother. Madeline, when
three years of age, was one day missed from her father's
house. Long and protracted search was made, which resulted,
at length, in the discovery of a part of the child's
dress near a spot where lay a pool of blood, and the mutilated
remains of what was probably once the merry,
laughing Madeline. As only a few of the bones and a
small part of the flesh was left, it was readily supposed
that the wolves, of which there were many at that time
in the woods, had done the bloody deed. Amid many
tears the remains were gathered up, placed in a little coffin,
and buried beneath the aged oak, under which they
were found. Years passed on, and the lost Madeline
ceased to be spoken of save by her parents, who could
never forget.
Marian, the youngest and now the only remaining
daughter of Mr. Gorton, was, at the time of her father's
emigration, fourteen years of age. She was a fair, handsome
girl, and already toward her George Wilder, who
was four years her senior, had turned his eyes, as toward
the star which was to illuminate his future horizon. But
she went from him, and thenceforth his heart yearned for
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the woods and hills of Kentucky, and it was partly through
his influence that his father had finally determined to remove
thither. Thus, while Charlie, creeping to the far
end of the wagon, wept as he thought of home and Ella,
George was anticipating a joyous meeting with the beautiful
Marian, and forming plans for the future, just as thousands
have done since and will do again.
CHAPTER V. THE NEW HOME.
It is not our intention to follow our travelers through
the various stages of their long, tiresome journey, but we
will with them hasten on to the close of a mild spring afternoon,
when the whole company, wearied and spiritless,
drew up in front of a large, newly built log house, in the
rear of which were three smaller ones. These last were
for the accommodation of the negroes, who were soon
scattering in every direction, in order to ascertain, as soon
as possible, all the conveniences and inconveniences of
their new home. It took Aunt Dillah but a short time to
make up her mind that “Kentuck was an ugly-looking,
out-of-the-way place, the whole on't; that she wished to
gracious she's back in old Virginny;” and lastly, that
“she never should have come, no how, if marster hadn't
of 'sisted and 'sisted, till 'twasn't in natur to 'fuse.”
This assertion Aunt Dillah repeated so frequently, that
she at length came to believe it herself. The old creature
had no idea that she was not the main prop of her master's
household, and we ourselves are inclined to think
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that Mrs. Wilder, unaided by Dillah's strong arm, ready
tact, and encouraging words, could not well have borne
the hardships and privations attending that home in the
wilderness. Weary and heart-sick, she stepped from the
little wagon, while an expression of sadness passed over
her face as her eye wandered over the surrounding country,
where tract after tract of thick woodland stretched
on and still onward, to the verge of the most distant
horizon.
Dillah, better than any one else, understood how to
cheer her mistress, and within an hour after their arrival,
a crackling fire was blazing in the fire-place, while the old
round iron tea-kettle, or rather its contents, were hissing
and moaning, and telling, as plainly as tea-kettle could tell,
of coming good cheer. At length the venison steaks and
Dillah's short-cake, smoking hot, were placed upon the
old square table, and the group which shared that first
supper at Glen's Creek, were, with the exception of Charlie,
comparatively contented. He, poor child, missed the
scenes of his early home, and more than all, he missed his
playmate, Ella.
Long after the hour of midnight went by, he stood by
his little low window near the head of his bed, gazing up
at the hosts of shining stars, and wondering if they were
looking upon his dear old home, even as they looked down
upon him, homesick and lonely, afar in the wilderness of
Kentucky.
-- 284 -- p598-289
CHAPTER VI. ORIANNA.
[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
Weeks passed on, and within and without Deacon
Wilder's door were signs of life and civilization. Trees
were cut down, gardens were made, corn and vegetables
were planted, and still no trace of an Indian had been
seen, although Jake had frequently expressed a wish to
get a shot at the “varmin,” as he called them. Still, he
felt that it would be unwise to be caught out alone at any
very great distance from his master's dwelling.
This feeling was shared by all of Deacon Wilder's household,
except Charlie, who frequently went forth alone into
the forest shade, and rambled over the hills where grew
the rich wild strawberry and the fair summer flowers, and
where, too, roamed the red man; for the Indian was there,
jealously watching each movement of his white brother,
and waiting for some provocation to strike a deadly blow.
But Charlie knew it not, and fearlessly each day he plunged
deeper and deeper into the depths of the woods, taking
some stately tree or blighted stump as a way-mark by
which to trace his homeward road, when the shadows began
to grow long and dark.
Although he knew it not, Charlie had a protector, who
each day, in the shady woods and wild gullies of Glen's
Creek, awaited his coming. Stealthily would she follow
his footsteps, and when on the velvety turf he laid him
down to rest, she would watch near him, lest harm should
befall the young sleeper. It was Orianna, the only and
darling child of Owanno, the chieftain whose wigwam was
three miles west of Glen's Creek, near a spot called Grassy
Spring.
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Orianna had first been attracted toward Charlie by seeing
him weep, one day, and from a few words which he
involuntarily let fall, she learned that his heart was not
with the scenes wherein he dwelt, but was far away toward
the “rising sun.” Orianna's heart was full of kindly
sympathy, and from the time when she first saw Charlie
weeping in the forest, she made a vow to the Great Spirit
that she would love and protect the child of the “pale-face.”
The vow thus made by the simple Indian maiden
was never broken, but through weal and woe it was faithfully
kept.
It was a long time ere Orianna ventured to introduce
herself to her new friend; but when she did so, she was
delighted to find that he neither expressed fear of her,
nor surprise at her personal appearance. From that time
they were inseparable, although Orianna exacted from
Charlie a promise not to mention her at home, and also
resisted his entreaties that she would accompany him
thither. In reply to all his arguments, she would say,
mournfully, “No, Charlie, no, the pale-face is the enemy
of my people, although Orianna never can think they are
enemies to her; and sometimes I have wished,—it was
wicked I know, and the Great Spirit was angry,—but I
have wished that I, too, was of the fair-haired and white-browed
ones.”
In Charlie's home there was much wonder as to what
took him so regularly to the woods, but he withstood their
questioning and kept his secret safely. In the wigwam,
too, where Orianna dwelt, there was some grumbling at
her frequent absences, but the old chieftain Owanno and
his wife Narretta loved their child too well to prohibit
her rambling when and where she pleased. This old
couple were far on the journey of life, when Orianna came
as a sunbeam of gladness to their lone cabin, and
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[figure description] Page 286.[end figure description]
thenceforth they doted upon her as the miser doats upon his
shining gold.
She was a tall, graceful creature of nineteen or twenty
summers, and her life would have been one of unbounded
happiness, had it not been for one circumstance. Near
her father's wigwam lived the young chief Wahlaga, who,
to a most ferocious nature, added a face horridly disfigured
by the many fights in which he had been foremost.
A part of his nose was gone, and one eye entirely so; yet
to this man had Owanno determined to wed his beautiful
daughter, who looked upon Wahlaga with perfect disgust,
and resolved, that sooner than marry him, she would perish
in the deep waters of the Kentucky, which lay not
many miles away.
CHAPTER VII. MARIAN.
The deacon and his family had now been residents at
Glen's Creek nearly three months. Already was the leafy
month of June verging into sultry July, when George
Wilder at length found time to carry out a plan long before
formed. It was to visit Marian, and if he found her
all which as a child she had promised to be, he would win
her for himself.
Soon after the early sun had touched the hill tops as
with a blaze of fire, George mounted his favorite steed,
and taking Jake with him for a companion, turned into
the woods and took the lonely road to Lexington.
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Leaving them for a moment, we will press on and see Marian's
home.
It was a large, double log building, over which the
flowering honeysuckle and dark green hop-vine had been
trained until they formed an effectual screen. The yard
in front was large, and much taste had been displayed in
the arrangement of the flowers and shrubs which were
scattered through it. Several large forest trees had been
left standing, and at one end of the yard, under a clump
of honey-locusts, a limpid stream of water, now nearly dry,
went dancing over the large flat limestones which lay at
the bottom. In the rear of the house was the garden,
which was very large, and contained several bordered
walks, grassy plats, and handsome flower-beds, besides vegetables
of all descriptions. At the end of the garden, and
under the shadows of the woods, was a little summer-house,
over which a wild grape-vine had been taught to
twine its tendrils.
In this summer-house, on the morning of which we are
speaking, was a beautiful young girl, Marian Gorton. We
have not described her, neither do we intend to, for she
was not as beautiful as heroines of stories usually are;
but, reader, we will venture that she was as handsome as
any person you have ever seen, for people were handsomer
in those days than they are now,— at least our grand-parents
tell us so. Neither have we told her age, although
we are sure that we have somewhere said enough on that
point to have you know, by a little calculation, that Marian
was now eighteen.
This morning, as she sits in the summer-house, her brow
is resting on her hand, and a shadow is resting on her
brow. Had Marian cause for sorrow? None, except
that her cousin Robert, who had recently returned from
England, had that morning offered her his hand and been
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partially refused. Yet why should Marian refuse him,
whom many a proud lady in the courtly halls of England
would not refuse? Did she remember one who, years
ago, in the green old woods of Virginia, awakened within
her childish heart a feeling, which, though it might have
slumbered since, was still there in all its freshness? Yes,
she did remember him, although she struggled hard to
conquer each feeling that was interwoven with a thought
of him. Nearly three months he had been within twenty
miles of her, and yet no word or message had been received,
and Marian's heart swelled with resentment toward
the young man, whose fleet steed even then could
scarce keep pace with his master's eager wishes to press
onward.
From her earliest childhood she had looked upon Robert
as a brother, and now that he was offered as a husband,
her heart rebelled, although pride occasionally
whispered, “Do it,—marry him,—then see what George
Wilder will say;” but Marian had too much good sense
long to listen to the promptings of pride, and the shadow
on her face is occasioned by a fear that she had remembered
so long and so faithfully only to find herself uncared
for and forgotten.
Meantime, the sound of horses' feet near her father's
house had brought to the fence half a dozen negroes and
half as many dogs, all ready in their own way to welcome
the new comers. After giving his horse in charge of the
negroes, George proceeded to the house, where he
was cordially received by Mrs. Gorton, who could scarcely
recognize the school-boy George, in the tall, fine looking
young man before her. Almost his first inquiry was
for Marian. Mrs. Gorton did not know where she was,
but old Sukey, who had known George in Virginia, now
hobbled in, and after a few tears, and a great many
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“Lor' bless you's,” and inquiries about “old Virginny,”
she managed to tell him that Marian was in the garden,
and that she would call her; but George prevented her,
saying he would go himself.
Most of my readers have doubtless either witnessed or
experienced meetings similar to that which took place between
George and Marian, so I shall not describe it, but
shall leave it for the imagination, which will probably do
it better justice than can my pen, which comes very near
the point of being used up. We will only say, that when
at twelve o'clock Mr. Gorton and Robert returned from
a ride, George and Marian were still in the summer-house,
unmindful of the sun which looked in upon them as if to
tell them of his onward course. But then, the question
that morning asked and answered, was of great importance,
so 'twas no wonder that they were alike deaf and
blind to the little darkies, who on tip-toe crept behind
the summer-house, eager to know “what the strange gentleman
could be saying to Miss Marian, which made her
look so speckled and roasted like.” These same hopefuls,
when at dinner time they were sent for their young
mistress, commenced a general hunt, which finally terminated
in the popping of their woolly heads into the summer-house
door, exclaiming between breaths, “Oh, Miss
Marian, here you is. We 've looked for you every whar!
Come to your dinner.” On their way to the house they
encountered old Sukey, who called out, “Ho, Mas' George,—
'specs mebby you found Miss Marry-'em,” at the same
time shaking her sides at her own wit.
Mr. Gorton received his young friend with great cordiality,
but there was a cool haughtiness in the reception
which Robert at first gave his old playmate. He suspected
the nature of George's visit, nor did Marian's bright, joyous
face tend in the least to allay his suspicions. But not
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long could he cherish feelings of resentment toward
one whom he liked so well as he had George Wilder. In
the course of an hour his reserve wore off, and unless
George should chance to see this story,—which is doubtful,—
he will probably never know how bitter were the
feelings which his presence for a few moments stirred in
the heart of Robert Hunting. Before George returned
home, he asked Marian of her father, and also won from
her a promise that, ere the frosts of winter came, her
home should be with him, and by his own fireside.
CHAPTER VIII. ROBERT AND ORIANNA.
There was much talk and excitement in Deacon Wilder's
family, when it was known that in a little more than
three months' time a young maiden would come among
them, who would be at once daughter, sister and mistress.
From Jake, the negroes had received most of their information,
and verily George himself would scarcely have
recognized Marian in the description given of her by his
servant. So many beauties and excellences were attributed
to her, that the negroes were all on the qui vive to
see this paragon.
Charlie, too, was delighted, and when next day he as
usual met Orianna in the woods, he led her to a mossy
bank, and then communicated to her the glad tidings.
When he repeated to her the name of his future sister-in-law,
he was greatly surprised at seeing Orianna start
quickly to her feet, while a wild light flashed from her
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large black eye. Soon reseating himself, she said, calmly,
“What is it, Charlie?” What is the name of the white
lady?”
“Marian,—Marian Gorton,” repeated Charlie. “Do
you not think it a pretty name?”
Orianna did not answer, but sat with her small, delicate
hands pressed tightly over her forehead. For a moment
Charlie looked at her in wonder; then taking both her
hands in his, he said, gently, “Don't feel so, Orianna. I
shall love you just as well, even if I do have a sister
Marian.”
Orianna's only answer was, “Say her name again,
Charlie.”
He did so, and then Orianna repeated, “Marian,—Marian,—
what is it? Oh, what is it? Marian;—it sounds
to Orianna like music heard years and years ago.”
“Perhaps it was a dream,” suggested Charlie.
“It must have been,” answered Orianna, “but a pleasant
dream, fair as the young moon or the summer flowers.
But tell me more, Charlie.”
“I will do so,” said he, “but I am afraid you will forget
your lesson.”
He had been in the habit of taking to the woods some
one of his reading books, and in this way he had unconsciously
awakened in Orianna a desire for learning. For
some time past a part of each day had been spent in
teaching her the alphabet. It was an interesting sight,
that dark, handsome girl, and the fair, pale boy,—he in
the capacity of a patient teacher, and she the ambitious
scholar.
On the afternoon of the day of which we are speaking,
they were, as usual, employed in their daily occupation.
The excitement of the occasion heightened the rich glow
on Orianna's cheek, while the wreath of white wild
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flowers, which Charlie had woven and placed among her shining
black hair, gave her the appearance of some dark
queen of the forest. The lesson was nearly completed,
and Charlie was overjoyed to find that his pupil knew every
letter, both great and small, when they were startled
by the sound of a footstep, and in a moment Robert
Hunting, who had accompanied George Wilder home
from Lexington, stood before them.
Swiftly as a deer Orianna bounded away, while Charlie,
in evident confusion, attempted to secrete his book, and
Robert burst into a loud laugh, saying, “Well done,
Charlie! So you 've turned schoolmaster, and chosen a
novel pupil, upon my word. But who is she? If she
be a native, she is handsomer far than half the white
girls!”
“She is Orianna,” said Charlie, “the daughter of a
chieftain, and I love her, too.
“Nobility, hey?” said Robert laughing. “Better
yet. But what made her run so? Did she think I was
the evil one? Can't you call her back?”
“She won't come,” answered Charlie, “she don't like
you, and I can't make her.”
“So you have been saying a word in my favor, have
you?” said Robert, a little sareastically. “Greatly
obliged to you, Master Charlie. But I prefer doing my
own pleading.”
“I didn't mean you,” said Charlie, a little indignantly.
“She don't know that there is such a thing as you. I
meant all the white folks.”
“Oh, you did,” answered Robert, looking wistfully in
the direction where Orianna had disappeared.
At that moment there was the report of a rifle, and a
ball passed between him and Charlie and lodged in a tree
a few feet distant.
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“Soho,” exclaimed Robert, “was n't content with
sending an arrow at my heart, but must hurl a bullet at
my head.”
Charlie was confounded. He never for a moment
doubted that Orianna had sent the ball, and a fearful distrust
of her filled his heart. A week went by, and still
he neglected to take his accustomed walk, although he
noticed that Robert went daily in his stead.
At length one morning Robert came to him and said,
“Orianna bade me tell you that each day, 'neath the
buckeye tree, she's watched for you in vain.”
Charlie's eyes opened wide with astonishment, as he
exclaimed, “Orianna? Where have you seen Orianna?”
“Where should I see her, pray, but in the woods?”
answered Robert. “We have spent the last five days
together, there, and I have taken your place as teacher.”
Here we may as well explain what the reader is doubtless
anxious to know. The bullet which passed between
Robert and Charlie was not sent by the hand of Orianna,
but by the vicious Wahlaga, whose curiosity had been
roused as to what led Orianna so frequently to the woods.
On that day he had followed and discovered her, just at
the moment when Robert appeared before her. The
jealous savage, thinking that he looked upon his rival,
made ready his gun, when Orianna, suddenly coming
upon him, threw aside his arm, thus changing the course
of the ball, while at the same time, she led the excited
Indian away, and at length succeeded in convincing him
that never before had she seen Robert, nor did she even
know who he was.
The next morning Orianna was overjoyed to learn that
Wahlaga was about leaving home, to be absent an indefinite
length of time. Her happiness, however, was soon
clouded by some expressions which he let fall, and from
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which she gathered that her father had promised to give
her in marriage as soon as he should return. “It shall
never be; no, never,” said the determined girl, as, immediately
after his departure, she took the narrow footpath
to the woods of Glen's Creek.
Throughout all the morning she waited in vain for Charlie,
although she several times saw Robert at a distance,
and felt sure that he was looking for her. She knew that
she had saved his life, and this created in her a desire to
see him again. Accordingly, when that afternoon they
once more came suddenly face to face, she did not run,
but eagerly asked after her young companion. Robert
knew well how to play his part, and in a few moments
Orianna's shyness had vanished, and she was answering,
with ready obedience, all the questions asked her by the
handsome stranger. Ere they parted, Robert had learned
that to her he owed his life, and as a token of his gratitude
he placed upon her slender finger a plain gold ring.
He did not ask her to meet him again, next day, but he
well knew she would, for she, who knew no evil, thought
no evil.
As Robert had said, he took Charlie's place as teacher;
but, ah me! the lessons thus taught and received were
of a far different nature from the alphabet in Charlie's
picture-book. Many a time, ere that week went by, the
simple Indian girl, in the solitude of night, knelt by the
streamlet which ran by her father's door, and prayed the
Great Spirit to forgive her for the love which she bore
the white man, the enemy of her people;—and he?—why,
he scarce knew himself what his thoughts and intentions
were. He looked upon Orianna as a simple-minded, innocent
child; and while he took peculiar delight in studying
her character, he resolved that neither in word nor
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deed would he harm the gentle girl who each day came
so timidly to his side.
Day after day was his stay at Glen's Creek protracted,
and yet he would not acknowledge that he was even
interested in her within whose heart a passion had
been awakened, never more to slumber. The day on
which he spoke to Charlie of Orianna, was the last which
he would spend at Glen's Creek, and as he did not wish
to be alone when he bade her adieu, he asked Charlie to
accompany him. Oh, how bright was the smile with
which the maiden greeted them at first, and how full of
despair was the expression of her face when told by Robert
that he must leave her. Not a word did she speak,
but closely to her heart she pressed the little Charlie, as
if fearful lest he, too, should go.
“Farewell, Orianna,” said Robert. “When the nuts
are brown upon the trees, look for me, for I shall come
again.”
A moment more, and he was gone,—gone with poor
Orianna's heart, and left her nothing in return. Covering
her face with her hands, she wept so long and bitterly,
that Charlie at last wound his arms around her neck, and
wept, too, although he knew not for what. This token
of sympathy aroused her, and after a moment she said,
“Leave me now, Charlie; Orianna would be alone.”
He arose to obey, when she added, “Don't tell them,—
don't tell him what you have seen.”
He promised secrecy, and Orianna was left alone. The
forest was dark with the shadows of coming night ere
she arose, and then the heart which she bore back to the
wigwam by Grassy Spring was sadder than any she had
ever before carried across the threshold of her home.
The next day Charlie noticed a certain listlessness about
his pupil, which he had never observed before; and
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though her eye wandered over the printed page, her
thoughts were evidently away. At last a happy thought
struck him, and drawing closely to her, he whispered, “I
think Robert will be pleased if you learn to read.”
He had touched the right chord,—no other incentive
was needed,—and from that day her improvement was as
rapid as the most ambitious teacher could wish. Frequently
she would ask Charlie concerning Marian, requesting
him to repeat her name; then she would fall into
a fit of musing, saying, “When heard I that name? and
where was it? — oh, where?”
Yes, Orianna, Where was it?
CHAPTER IX. THE BRIDAL.
Swiftly and on noiseless wing sped on old father Time,
and they who thought the summer would never pass,
were surprised when o'er the wooded hills the breath of
autumn came, bearing the yellow leaf — the first white
hair in nature's sunny locks. The golden harvests were
gathered in, and through the forest “the sound of dropping
nuts was heard,” showing that
“The melancholy days had come,
The saddest of the year.”
It was the last day of October, and over the fading
earth the autumnal sun was shedding its rays as brightly
as in the early summer. The long shadows, stretching
far to the eastward, betokened the approach of night, and
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when at last the sun sank to its western home, the full
moon poured a flood of soft, pale light over the scene,
and looking in at a half opened window, shone upon a
beautiful young girl, who, with the love-light in her dark
blue eye, and woman's holy trust in her heart, was listening,
or seeming to listen, while the words were said
which made her the wife of George Wilder.
Scarce was the ceremony completed, when the light
from the window was obscured, a shadow fell darkly upon
Robert, and a voice, clear and musical, uttered words
which curdled the blood of the fair bride, and made more
than one heart stand still with fear. They were, “The
Indians, the Indians! — they are coming in less than an
hour!”
The next moment a tall and graceful figure appeared
in the doorway, and laying its hand on Robert's shoulder,
exclaimed, “It is your life they seek, but Orianna will
save you!”
Then away glided the maiden, so noiselessly that but
for the tidings she brought, the party would almost have
doubted that she had been there. For a time the company
were mute with surprise, and involuntarily George
clasped closely to his side his Marian, as if to shield her
from the coming danger. At length, Mr. Gorton asked
Robert for an explanation of what the stranger had said.
Robert replied, “Two days since, I was hunting in the
woods not far from the house, when a rustling noise behind
some bushes attracted my attention. Without stopping
to think, I leveled my gun and fired, when behold!
up sprang an Indian girl, and bounded away so swiftly
that to overtake her and apologize was impossible. This
I suppose to be the reason why my life is sought.”
His supposition was correct, and for the benefit of the
reader we will explain how Orianna became possessed of
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the secret. The night before, when returning to her father's
wigwam, she was startled by the sound of many
voices within. Curiosity prompted her to listen, and she
thus learned that the Indians who lived east of Lexington
had been insulted by a white man, who had fired at one
of their squaws. From the description of the aggressor,
she knew it to be Robert, and with fast beating heart she
listened to the plan of attacking Mr. Gorton's dwelling
on the night of the wedding.
Owanno heard them to the end, and then, to Orianna's
great delight, he refused to join them, saying he was now
too old to contend with the pale-face, unless himself or
family were molested. The old chief would not acknowledge
how much this decision was owing to the influence
of his gentle daughter. He knew she liked the whites,
and he knew, too, another thing,—but 'tis not time for
that yet.
Orianna had now something to do. A life dearer far
than her own was to be saved, and Marian, too,—whose
very name had a power to thrill each nerve of that noble
Indian girl,—she was in danger.
The next day Charlie waited in vain for his pupil, for
she was away on her mission of love, and the stern
features of many an Indian relaxed as he welcomed to
his cabin the chieftain's daughter. Ere the sun set she
fully understood their plan of attack, and then, unmindful
of the twenty-five miles traversed since the dawn of
day, she hied her back to Lexington, to raise its inhabitants,
and as we have seen, to apprise the bridal party
of their danger.
Not a moment was to be lost, and while they were consulting
as to their best means of safety, the Indian girl
again stood among them, saying, “Let me advise you.
It is not the town they wish to attack,—they will hardly
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do that,—it is this house,—it is you,” laying her hand
convulsively on Robert's arm. “But there is yet time to
escape; flee to the town, and leave me here—”
“To be killed!” said Robert.
“To be killed!” she repeated, scornfully. “In all
Kentucky there lives not the red man who dares touch a
hair of Orianna's head.”
Her proposition seemed feasible enough, and after a little
hesitation it was resolved to adopt it. The negroes
had already done so, for at the first alarm they had taken
tot heir heels, and were byt his time half way to Lexington.
Thither the whites, with the exception of Robert,
soon followed. He resolutely refused to go, saying, in
answer to his friends' entreaties. “No, never will I desert
a helpless female. You remove the ladies to a place
of safety, and then with others return to my aid.”
So they were left alone, the white man and the Indian.
Together, side by side, they watched the coming of the
foe. At Orianna's direction the doors had been barricaded,
while the lights were left burning in order to
deceive the Indians into a belief that the inmates still
were there. A half hour went by, and then, in tones
which sent the blood in icy streams through Robert's
veins, Orianna whispered, “They come! Do you see
them? Look!”
He did look, and by the light of the moon he discerned
the outlines of many dusky forms, moving stealthily
through the woods in the direction of the house. The
garden fence was passed, and then onward, slowly but
surely, they came. So intent was Robert in watching
their movements, that he noted not the band of armed
men who, in an opposite direction, were advancing to the
rescue; neither did he observe in time to prevent it the
lightning spring with which Orianna bounded through
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the window, and went forth to meet the enemy, who,
mistaking her for some one else, uttered a yell of savage
exultation and pressed on more fiercely. Loud and deafening
was the war-cry which echoed through the woods,
and louder still was the shout of defiance which rent the
air, as the whites came suddenly face to face with the astonished
Indians.
It was Orianna's intention, when she leaped from the
window, to reach the leader of the savages, and by telling
him the truth of the matter as she had heard it from
Robert, she hoped to dissuade him from his murderous
design. But her interference was not needed, for the
savages were surprised and intimidated by the unexpected
resistance, and in the fear and confusion of the moment
they greatly magnified the number of their assailants.
Accordingly, after a few random shots, they precipitately
fled, leaving Orianna alone with those whose lives she had
saved.
Almost caressingly Robert wound his arm about her
slight form, as he said, “Twice have you saved my life.
Now, name your reward, and if money—”
There was bitterness in the tone with which Orianna
interrupted him, saying, “Money! Orianna never
works for money. All she asks is that you let her go,
for the path is long which she must tread ere the sun's
rising.”
“To-night! You will not leave us to-night!” said
Robert.
“Urge me not,” answered Orianna, “for by the wig
wam door at Grassy Spring Narretta waits, and wonders
why I linger.”
Remonstrance was useless, for even while Robert was
speaking, she moved away, and the echo of her footfall
was scarcely heard, so rapid and cat-like was the tread
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with which she disappeared in the darkness of the woods.
Robert looked thoughtfully after her for a time, and then,
with something very like a half smothered sigh, he turned
away. Could that sigh, faint as it was, have fallen on the
ear of the lone Indian girl, she would have felt fully repaid
for her toil, but now a weight of sorrow lay upon
her young heart, crushing each flower of gladness, even
as she, with impatient tread, crushed beneath her feet
the yellow leaves of autumn.
CHAPTER X. ORIANNA'S FAITH.
Long had the old square table, with its cloth of snowy
whiteness and its load of eatables, waited the coming of
the bridal party. Many times had Mrs. Wilder stood in
the doorway, and strained her eyes to catch a sight of
the expected company, and more than many times had
old Dillah declared “that the corn cake which riz so nice
would be fell as flat as a pewer platter, if they didn't come
along.”
At length, from the top of a large old maple, in whose
boughs several young Africans were safely ensconced,
there came the joyful cry of, “There, they's comin'.
That's the new miss with the tail of her dress floppin'
round the horses' heels. Jimminy! ain't she a tall one!”
and the youngsters dropped to the ground, and perched
themselves, some on the fence and others on the gate,
with eyes and mouth open to whatever might happen.
In the doorway Mrs. Wilder received the bride, and
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the ready tears gushed forth as for the first time in her
life she folded to her heart a daughter. From his stool
in the corner, Charlie came, and throwing his arms around
Marian's neck, he said, “I know I shall love you, for you
look so much like Orianna!”
Old Dillah, who was pressing forward to offer her congratulations,
was so much surprised that she forgot the
bow and fine speech which, for more than a week, she had
been practicing. Her command of language, however,
did not wholly desert her, for she said, somewhat warmly,
“Clar for 't, Master Charles, young miss won't feel much
sot up to be told she favors a black Injun.”
George, too, was evidently piqued at having his bride
likened to an Indian, but Robert came to Charlie's relief,
saying, “that he had often noticed how wholly unlike an
Indian were the features of Orianna, and that were her
skin a few shades lighter, she would be far more beautiful
than many pale-cheeked belles, with their golden curls
and snowy brows.”
The conversation now turned upon Orianna, and the
strong affection which existed between her and Charlie,
whom Robert teased unmercifully about his “dark-eyed
ladye love.”
Charlie bore it manfully, and ere the evening was spent,
he had promised to take Marian with him when next he
visited his Indian friend. This promise he fulfilled, and
the meeting between the two girls was perfectly simple
and natural. Both were prepared to like each other, and
both looked curiously, one at the other, although Marian
at last became uneasy at the deep, earnest gaze which
those full, black eyes bent upon her, while their owner
occasionally whispered, “Marian, Marian.”
Visions of sorcery and witchcraft passed before her
mind, and still, turn which way she would, she felt that
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the dark girl's eyes were fixed upon her with a strangely
fascinating look. But fear not, young Marian, for though
she strokes your silken curls, and caressingly touches your
soft cheek, the forest maiden will do you no harm. At
length Marian's timidity gave way, and when she arose
to go, she did not refuse her hand to Orianna, who for a
time kept it between her own, as if admiring its whiteness;
then suddenly throwing it from her, she said, “Oh,
why can't Orianna be white and handsome, too!”
“You are handsome,” answered Marian. “Only two
evenings since I heard Robert Hunting say that you were
far more beautiful than half the white girls.”
“Who takes my name in vain?” said a musical voice,
as Robert himself appeared before them, and laid his
hand gently upon Orianna's glossy hair.
If Marian had any doubts of her beauty before, they
were now dispelled by the rich color which mounted to
her olive cheek, and the joy which danced in her large
eye. Yet 'twas not Robert's presence alone which so delighted
Orianna. A ray of hope had entered her heart.
“He thought her beautiful, and perhaps—perhaps—”
Ah, Orianna, think not that Robert Hunting will ever
wed an Indian, for Robert is no Rolfe, and you no Pocahontas!
As if divining and giving words to her thoughts, Robert,
while seating himself between the two girls, and placing
an arm around each, said, playfully, “Hang it all, Orianna,
why were you not white!”
“Don't, Bob,” whispered Marian, who with woman's
quick perception half suspected the nature of Orianna's
feelings for one whose life she twice had saved.
“Don't what, my little Puritan?” asked Robert.
“Don't raise hopes which you know can never be realized,”
answered Marian.
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Robert was silent for a while, and then said, “I reckon
my orthodox cousin is right;” then turning to Orianna,
he asked how her reading progressed.
Charlie answered for her, saying that she could read in
words of one syllable as well as any one, and that she
knew a great deal besides! Robert was about testing her
powers of scholarship, when they were joined by George
Wilder, before whom Orianna absolutely refused to open
her mouth, and in a few moments she arose and left them,
saying, “I shall come again, to-morrow.”
That night, by the wigwam fire Narretta was listening
to her daughter's account of the “white dove,” as she
called Marian. Suddenly a light seemed to dawn on Orianna's
mind, and clasping her hands together, she said,
“Mother, do you remember when I was sick, many, many
moons ago?”
“Yes, child,” answered Narretta, and Orianna continued:
“I slept a long time, I know, but when I woke, I
remember that you, or some one else, said, “She is getting
white; it will never do.” Then I looked at my
hands, and they were almost as fair as Marian's, but you
washed me with something, and I was dark again. Tell
me, mother, was I turning white?”
“Turning white! No, child,” said Narretta; “now
shut up and get to bed.”
Orianna obeyed, but she could not sleep, and about
midnight she stole out at the door, and going to the
spring, for more than half an hour she bathed her face
and hands, hoping to wash off the offensive color. But
all her efforts were vain, and then on the withered leaves
she knelt, and prayed to the white man's God,—the God
who, Charlie had said, could do everything. “Make Orianna
white, make her white,” were the only words she
uttered, but around her heart there gathered confidence
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that her prayer would be answered, and impatiently she
waited for the morrow's light.
“Mother, am I white?” aroused Narretta from her
slumbers, just as the first sunlight fell across the floor.
“White! No; blacker than ever,” was the gruff answer,
and Orianna's faith in “Charlie's God” was shaken.
CHAPTER XI. PREPARATIONS FOR A JOURNEY.
O'er the forest dark and lonely,
Death's broad wing is brooding now
While each day the shadow deepens
Over Charlie's fevered brow.
Charlie's health, which had always been delicate,
seemed much impaired by the Kentucky air, but with the
return of winter, there came the hacking cough and darting
pain, and Orianna already foresaw the time when,
with a flood of bitter tears, she would lay her darling in
the grave. The meetings in the woods were given up,
and if Orianna saw her pet at all, it was in his home,
where she at length became a regular visitor, and where
Marian daily taught her as Charlie had before done.
Many were the lessons learned in the sick-room where
Charlie lay, fading day by day, and many were the talks
which he had with his Indian friend concerning the God
whose power she questioned. But from the time when
she was able herself to read in Charlie's bible, the light
of truth slowly broke over her darkened mind.
From the commencement of Charlie's illness, he looked
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upon death as sure, and his young heart went back to his
playmate, Ella, with earnest longings, which vented themselves
in pleadings that some one would go for her,—
would bring her to him and let him look upon her once
more ere he died. 'Twas in vain that his mother tried to
convince him of the impossibility of such a thing. He
would only answer, “I shall not know her in heaven, unless
I see her again, for I have almost forgotten how she
looked.”
Winter was gone, and Charlie, no longer able to sit up,
lay each day in his bed, talking of heaven and Ella, whom
he now scarcely hoped to see again. One afternoon Orianna
lingered longer than usual, in low, earnest conversation
with the sufferer. Charlie listened eagerly to what
she was saying, while his eye sparkled and his fading
cheek glowed as with the infusion of new life. As she
was about leaving she whispered, softly, “Never fear;
though the time be long, I will surely bring her.”
Yes, Orianna had resolved to go alone through the wilderness
to Virginia, and bring to the dying boy the little
Ella. Filled with this idea, she hastened home; but list,—
whose voice is it, that on the threshold of her father's
door makes her quake with fear? Ah, Orianna kens full
well that 'tis Wahlaga! He has returned to claim his
bride, and instantly visions of the pale, dying Charlie, the
far off Ella, and of one, too, whose name she scarcely
dared breathe, rose before her, as in mute agony she
leaned against the door.
But her thoughts soon resolved themselves into one
fixed determination—“I will never marry him;” and
then with a firm step she entered the cabin. Wahlaga
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must have guessed her feelings, for he greeted her moodily,
and immediately left her with her parents. To her
father, she instantly confided her plan of going for Ella,
and as she had expected, he sternly forbade it, saying she
should stay and marry Wahlaga.
Owanno was surprised at the decided manner with
which Orianna replied, “Never, father, never. I will
die in the deep river first.”
At this juncture Wahlaga entered, and the discussion
grew warmer and more earnest. Words more angry the
chieftain spoke to his daughter than ever before he had
done. Suddenly his manner softened, and concerning her
going for Ella, he said, “If you marry Wahlaga, you can
go; otherwise you cannot, unless you run away.”
“And if she does that,” fiercely continued Wahlaga,
“I swear by the Great Spirit, I'll never rest until I've
shed the blood of every pale-face in that nest—sick whining
boy and all.”
Like one benumbed by some great and sudden calamity,
Orianna stood speechless, until her father asked,
“Will you go?”
Then, rousing herself, she said, “I cannot answer now;
wait till to-morrow.” Then forth from the cabin she went,
and onward through the fast deepening twilight she fled,
until through an opening in the trees she espied the light
which gleamed from Charlie's sick-room. Softly approaching
the window, she looked in and saw a sight
which stopped for a moment the tumultuous beatings of
her heart, and wrung from her a shriek of anguish. Supported
by pillows lay Charlie, panting for breath, while
slowly from his white lips issued drops of blood, which
Marian gently wiped away, while the rest of the family were
doing what they could to restore him. When Orianna's
loud cry of agony echoed through the room, Charlie
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slowly unclosed his eyes, and in an instant the Indian
girl was beside him, exclaiming, wildly, “Charlie, Charlie,
do not die. I'll marry him, I'll go for her, I'll do anything.”
The astonished family at length succeeded in pacifying
her, by telling her that Charlie had, in a fit of coughing,
ruptured a blood vessel, but that there was no immediate
danger if she would keep quiet. Quickly the great agony
of her heart was hushed, and silently she stood by
the bedside; nor did they who looked on her calm face
once dream of the tornado within, or how like daggers
were the words of Charlie, who, in his disturbed sleep,
occasionally murmured, “Ella,—oh, Ella,—has Orianna
gone?—she said she would.”
Suddenly turning to Marian, Orianna, with a pressure
of the hand almost crushing, said, “Tell me what to do?”
and from the little cot, Charlie, all unconsciously answered,
“Go for Ella.”
“I will,” said Orianna, and ere Marian had recovered
from her astonishment, she was gone. When alone in the
forest, she at first resolved to start directly for Virginia,
but the remembrance of Wahlaga's threat prevented her,
and then again in the stilly night the heroic girl knelt and
asked of Charlie's God what she should do.
Owanno was surprised when, at a late hour that night,
Orianna returned, and expressed her willingness to marry
Wahlaga, on condition that she should first go for Ella,
and that he should not follow her.
“What proof have we that you will return?” asked
Wahlaga, who was present.
Orianna's lip curled haughtily, as she answered, “Orianna
never yet broke her word.”
“The tomahawk and death to those you love, if you
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fail of coming,” continued the savage, and “Be it so,”
was the reply.
Old Narretta with streaming eyes would fain have interposed
a word for her beloved child, but aught from her
would have been unavailing. So on the poor girl's head,
which drooped heavily upon her lap, she laid her hard,
withered hands, and her tears fell soothingly on the
troubled heart of one who stood in so much need of
sympathy.
With the coming of daylight Orianna departed. Narretta
accompanied her a short distance, and learned from
her how much more than her life she loved the white man,
and that were it not for this, not half so terrible would be
her marriage with Wahlaga.
“I would help you if I could,” said Narretta, “but I cannot,
though each night I will ask the Great Spirit to take
care of you.”
So they parted, Narretta to return to her lone cabin,
and Orianna to pursue her way, she scarce knew whither.
For many days they missed her in the sick-room, where
all but Charlie wondered why she tarried, and he finally
succeeded in convincing them that she had really gone for
Ella, though at what a fearful sacrifice he knew not.
CHAPTER XII. ELLA.
The town of P— is almost exactly east of Glen's
Creek, and by keeping constantly in that direction, Orianna
had but little difficulty in finding her way. In twelve
days' time she accomplished her journey, stopping for food
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and lodging at the numerous wigwams which lay on her
road.
It was near the middle of the afternoon when, at last,
she entered the woods on the borders of which lay the
settlement of P—. Wearied with her day's toil, she
sought a resting-place beneath the same old oak where,
seventeen years before, Mr. Gorton had laid his little
Madeline; and the same large, rough stone which he had
placed there to mark the spot, and which had since fallen
down, now served her for a seat. But Orianna knew it
not, nor ever dreamed that often had Robert and Marian
stood there, the one listening tearfully, while the other
told her all he could remember of the sister who, in childish
playfulness, he had often called his little wife.
It was now near the first of April, and already had the
forest trees put forth many a dark green leaflet, while the
song birds gaily caroled of the coming summer; but Orianna
did not hear them. Sadly her heart went back to
her home, and what there awaited her. Weary and worn,
it is not strange that for a time she yielded to the despair
which had gathered about her heart. Covering her face
with her hands, she wept bitterly, nor until twice repeated
did she hear the words, “What makes you cry so?” uttered
in the soft tones of childhood.
Looking up, she saw before her a little girl, her deep
blue eyes filled with wonder and her tiny hands filled with
the wild flowers of spring.
Something whispered to Orianna that it was Ella, and
brushing away her tears, she answered, “Orianna is tired,
for she has come a long way.”
“What have you come for?” asked the child.
“Charlie sent me. Do you know Charlie?” and Orianna
looked earnestly at the little girl, whose blue eyes
opened wider, and whose tiny hands dropped the
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flowerets, as she answered, “Charlie, my cousin Charlie? Have
you come from him? What word did he send me?”
“Walk with me and I will tell you,” said Orianna, rising
and taking by the hand the unresisting child, who,
with the ready instinct of childhood, could discriminate
between a friend and foe.
For more than an hour they walked rapidly on, Ella, in
her eagerness to hear from Charlie, never once thinking
how fast the distance between herself and her home was
increasing; nor had she a thought of her companion's intention,
until Orianna, suddenly lifting her in her arms,
said, “I promised Charlie I would bring you, and for that
have I come.”
Then a cry of fear burst from Ella, who struggled vainly
to escape from the arms which gently, but tightly, held
her. “Let me go, oh, please let me go,” she cried, as
Orianna's walk quickened into a run; but Orianna only
replied, “I told Charlie I would bring you, and I promise
you shall not be hurt.”
“Mother, oh, mother, who will tell my mother?” asked
Ella.
“I will send some one to her in the morning,” answered
Orianna; and then in order to soothe the excited child,
she commenced narrating anecdotes of Charlie and the
place to which they were going.
Finding it impossible to escape, Ella by degrees grew
calm, and as the night closed in, she fell asleep in the arms
of Orianna, who, with almost superhuman efforts, sped on
until a wigwam was reached. There for a short time she
rested, and won from a young Indian a promise that he
would next morning acquaint Capt. Wilder of the whereabouts
of his child. Fearing pursuit, she could not be prevailed
upon to stay all night, but started forward, still
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keeping in her arms the little Ella, who at last slept as
soundly as ever she had done in her soft bed at home.
The night was far spent when Orianna finally stopped
beneath the shelter of a large, overhanging rock. The
movement aroused Ella, who instantly comprehending
where she was, again plead earnestly that she might go
home. Orianna soon convinced her that to return alone
was impossible, and then painted the meeting between herself
and Charlie so glowingly, that though her eyes were
full of tears, her voice was more cheerful, as she asked,
“And will you surely bring me back?”
“As yonder stars fade in the rising sun, so surely shall
you go home,” said Orianna. Then spreading in her lap
the blanket which, with ready forethought, she had
brought from home, she bade Ella lie down and sleep.
“And will you keep the bad Indians off?” asked Ella,
looking shudderingly around at the dark woods.
“No one will harm you while I am here,” was Orianna's
reply, and with the trusting faith of childhood Ella was
soon fast asleep, while Orianna carefully watched her
slumbers.
Once during her night vigils she was startled by the
distant cry of some wild beast, but it came not near, and
the morning found them both unharmed. Dividing with
her little charge the corn bread and cold venison which
had been procured at the wigwam, Orianna again set forward,
leading Ella by the hand, and beguiling the hours
in every possible way. The next night they passed in a
wigwam, where dusky faces bent curiously above the
“pale flower” as she slept, and where, next morning, in
addition to the bountiful supply of corn-cake and venison,
a bunch of spring violets was presented to Ella by an Indian
boy, who had gathered them expressly for the “white
pappoose,” as he called her.
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Blest season of childhood, which gathers around it so
many who are ready to smooth the rough places and
pluck the sharp thorns which lie so thickly scattered on
life's pathway! It was Ella's talisman; for more than one
tall Indian, on learning her history from Orianna, cheerfully
lent a helping hand, and on his brawny shoulders carried
her from the sun's rising to its going down.
With Ella for a companion, Orianna proceeded but
slowly, and nearly three weeks were spent ere familiar
way-marks told her that they were nearing Lexington.
“In less than two days we shall be there,” she said to
Ella, as at the close of one day they drew near that town.
Lighter grew Ella's footsteps, and brighter was her eye,
while darker and deeper grew the shadows around poor
Orianna. She was right in her calculations, for on the afternoon
of the second day they struck into the narrow
footpath which led to Deacon Wilder's house, and which
she and Charlie oft had trodden.
Here for a time we will leave them, while in another
chapter we will read what has taken place since we in the
wilderness have been roaming.
CHAPTER XIII. THE DEATH-BED.
Anxiously as the sun was going down, did Mrs. Wilder
watch from her window for the return of her daughter,
and as the gray twilight deepened into night, and still
she came not, the whole household was alarmed, and
every house in the settlement was visited, to learn, if
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possible, some tidings of the wanderer. Some remembered
having seen her enter the woods soon after dinner, but
farther than that none could tell; and the loud, shrill cry
of “Lost! lost! A child lost in the woods!” echoed on
the evening air, and brought from a distance many who
joined in the unsuccessful search, which lasted all night.
Morning came, and Mrs. Wilder, pale and distracted with
grief, ran hither and thither, calling loudly for her lost
darling.
Three hours of the sun's daily journey was accomplished,
when a young Indian was seen to emerge from the woods,
and rapidly approach the house of Capt. Wilder, where
he communicated all he knew concerning Orianna, and
ended his narrative by saying, “It will be useless to follow
her.”
But Capt. Wilder did not think so, and instantly mounting
his horse, he started in pursuit; but the path he took
was entirely different from the one chosen by Orianna,
and at night-fall he returned home, weary and discouraged.
For some time he had been contemplating a visit to his
brother, and he now resolved to do so, hoping by this
means to fall in with the fugitives. Mrs. Wilder warmly
approved the plan, but made him promise that if no good
news were heard of Ella, he would instantly return.
Taking with him two negroes, he started on his journey,
but no trace of Orianna did he discover, and he
reached Glen's Creek before she had accomplished half
the distance. Assured by his brother's family of Ella's
perfect safety with the Indian girl, he grew calm, although
he impatiently waited their coming.
Meantime, little Charlie had grown worse, until at last
he ceased to speak of Ella, although he confidently expected
to see her, and requested that his bed might be
moved to a position from which he could discern the path
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which led up from the woods. There for many days he
watched, and then turning sadly away, he said, “Mother,
now take me back. Ella will come, but I shall be dead.”
From that time he grew worse, and the afternoon on
which we left Orianna and Ella in the woods was the last
he ever saw on earth. Gathered around the dying boy
were weeping friends, who knew that the mild spring sun
which so gently kissed his cold, pale brow, would never
rise again for him. Kind words he had spoken to all, and
then in a faint whisper, he said, “Tell Ella —;” but
the sentence was unfinished, for Ella stood before him,
while the look of joy that lighted up his face told how
dear to him was the little girl around whose neck his arms
twined so lovingly.
And now a darker face, but not less loving heart, approached,
and whispered softly, “Charlie, do you know
me?”
“Orianna,” was the answer, as on her lips a kiss was
pressed.
Then the arms unclasped from Ella's neck, over the
blue eyes the heavy eyelids closed, and Charlie had gone
home. With a bitter wail of sorrow Orianna bent for a
moment over the marble form, for which she had sacrificed
so much, and then, from among those who fain would
have detained her, she went, nor paused for a moment,
until the wigwam of her father was reached.
In the doorway she found Narretta, whose first exclamation
was, “Have you heard? Have they told you?
The Great Spirit has answered my prayer!” and then to
her daughter she unfolded a tale which we, too, will narrate
to our readers.
It will be remembered that on the day when Orianna
left home for Virginia, Narretta accompanied her a short
distance, and learned from her the story of her love for
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Robert. To tnat story there was another,—an unobserved
listener,—Wahlaga, who from that hour resolved
to take the life of his pale rival, but his designs were foiled
by a summons from the invisible world, which he could
not disobey.
A week after Orianna's departure, he was taken ill of
a disease contracted at the Indian camp, where he had
spent the winter. All the skill of the “medicine man”
could not save him, and on the fifth day he died, cursing,
with his last breath, his hated rival.
When it was known at Deacon Wilder's that death had
been at Grassy Spring, words of kindly sympathy were
sent there for the sake of the noble Orianna; and for her
sake, perhaps, Owanno's feelings softened toward the inhabitants
of Glen's Creek. It is impossible to describe
Orianna's feelings on learning that the dreadful Wahlaga
was dead, really dead, and would trouble her no more.
Her whole being seemed changed, and the slumber which
that night stole o'er her was sweeter far and more refreshing,
than for many weary days had visited her.
At Glen's Creek that same night Capt. Wilder, with
his darling Ella pressed to his bosom, was listening, while
between her tears for little Charlie, she told him of the
many virtues of her Indian companion, urging him to
send for her mother, that she, too, might know and love
Orianna. But Ella's strength was exhausted long before
her theme, and when, as her voice ceased, her father
looked down upon her, she was far in the depths of
dreamland.
-- 317 -- p598-322
CHAPTER XIV. THE DENOUEMENT.
[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]
As if to mock the anguish of those who were about to lay
their last-born in the earth, the day of Charlie's funeral
was bright and beautiful, as the spring days often are
'neath the warm Kentucky sun. Sweetly the wild flowers
were blooming, and merrily sang the summer birds,
as underneath a maple tree, a tree which stands there yet,
they dug that little grave,— the first grave at Glen's
Creek. Mr. and Mrs. Gorton, Robert, and several others
from Lexington had come to shed the sympathizing tear
with the bereaved ones, but besides the nearest relatives,
there was not so sincere a mourner as she who, apart from
the rest, looked silently on, while into the earth they lowered
the cold, dead Charlie.
Long after the mourners had returned to their desolate
home, she lingered, and on the little mound deplored
in piteous tones her loss, saying, “Oh, woe is me, now
Charlie has crossed the great river, and left Orianna all
alone. Who will love me now, as he did?”
“Many, many,” answered Robert Hunting, who purposely
had returned, and been an eye and ear witness of
Orianna's grief. “Yes, many will love you,” he continued,
seating himself by her, and drawing her closely to
him. Then in the bewildered girl's ear he softly whispered,
“I am not worthy of you, Orianna, but I love you,
and I know, too, on what condition you went to Virginia,
and that had Wahlaga lived, he had sworn to murder me
and marry you.”
For this information he was indebted to Narretta, who,
three days before Wahlaga's illness, overhearing him unfold
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his plan of revenge to Owanno, went to the door of Deacon
Wilder's house, and asking for Robert, led him to the
woods, and there communicated to him what he has just
told Orianna. Robert did not ask Orianna to be his
wife; and perhaps 'twas well that he did not, for the confession
which he did make, added to the excitement of
Wahlaga's and Charlie's death, was too much for a frame
already weakened by the hardships attending that journey
to and from Virginia. The next morning found her
burning with fever and raving with delirium. Owanno,
too, was smitten by the same disease which had consigned
Wahlaga to an early grave.
With anxious heart Narretta hurried from one sufferer
to the other, and the first Indian that looked in at the
door, was urged to go immediately to Deacon Wilder's
and ask some one to come to her. Robert and Marian
instantly obeyed the summons, but human skill could
not save Owanno. In three days after the commencement
of his illness, it was said of him that he had
gone to the fair hunting grounds, while the despairing
howl of the assembled Indians mingled with the mournful
wail of the widowed Narretta and the feeble moans
of Orianna, who incessantly cried, “Bury me under the
maple tree with Charlie, where we sat when he told me,—
where he told me,—” but what he told her she never
said.
At Marian's request, Mrs. Gorton had remained for
some time at Glen's Creek, and one day, not long after
Owanno's burial, she accompanied her daughter to see
Orianna, who, though very weak, was still much better.
They found her asleep, but Narretta arose to receive
them. As Mrs. Gorton's eye fell upon her, an undefined
remembrance of something past and gone rose before her,
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and at last, taking the old Indian woman's hand, she said,
“Narretta, have I never met you before?”
“Plenty times,” was the laconic answer; and after a
moment's pause, Mrs. Gorton, continued: “I remember,
now, eighteen or twenty years ago your wigwam was
near my home in Virginia, and you one morning came to
me, saying you were going away toward the setting sun.”
“White woman remembers wonderful,” said old
Narretta.
“I might not remember so well,” answered Mrs. Gorton,
“but you loved my little Madeline, and about the
time you went away she died.”
Something out of doors attracted Narretta's attention,
and she abruptly turned away. For more than an hour
she was gone, and when she returned she was muttering
to herself, “Yes, I'll do it. I shall do it.”
“Do what?” asked Marian, a little alarmed at Narretta's
excited manner.
But Narretta made her no answer, and going up to
Mrs. Gorton, said rapidly, “Madeline did not die! Narretta
loved her, loved all children, but the Great Spirit
gave her no pappooses of her own, and when she went
away she stole her. She took her, and under the tree she
left a part of her clothing and the smashed carcass of a
young fawn, to make the white woman think the wolves
had eaten her up.”
Here she stopped, and Mrs Gorton, grasping the wasted
hand of Orianna, turned to Narretta and said, “Tell me,
tell me truly, if this be Madeline, my long lost daughter!”
“It is,” answered Narretta. “You know she was
never as fair as the other one,” pointing to Marian, “and
with a wash of roots which I made, she grew still blacker.”
She might have added, also, that constant exposure to
the weather had rendered still darker Orianna's
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complexion, which was naturally a rich brunette. But whatever
else she might have said, was prevented by Mrs. Gorton,
who fell in a death-like swoon at her feet. The shock
was too great, to know that in the gentle Orianna, whose
noble conduct had won the love of so many hearts, she
beheld her long wept-for daughter Madeline.
Upon Marian and Orianna the knowledge that they
were sisters operated differently, according to their different
temperaments. With a cry of joy Marian threw
her arms around Orianna's neck, who, when made to comprehend
the reality, burst into tears, saying, “I thought I
should be white, someting,— I almost knew I should.”
By this time Mrs. Gorton had recovered from her fainting
fit, and clasping her newly found daughter to her bosom,
thanked the God who so unexpectedly had restored
her. The next day the news reached Lexington, bringing
thence Robert, who, in the intensity of his joy, seemed
hardly sane. At a glance he foresaw the future. Orianna,
for so he would always call her, should go to school
for five years, and at the end of that time, images of a
noble, beautiful bride, rose before him, as he hurriedly
traversed the road to Grassy Spring. Their interview we
shall not describe, for no one witnessed it, though Marian
impatiently remarked, “that it took Bob much longer to
tell what he had to say than it did George when he first
came to Lexington.” But then Marian had forgotten, as
who will not forget, or pretend to.
Old Narretta was the only one who seemed not to share
the general joy. She looked upon Orianna as lost to her
forever, and heard the plan of sending her to school with
unfeigned sorrow. Still, she made no objections to whatever
Mr. and Mrs. Gorton chose to do with their child;
and when Orianna was well enough, she gave her consent
that she should be removed to her father's house, where
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[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]
every possible indulgence was lavished upon her by her
parents, in order to attach her to them and their mode of
life.
There was now no tie to bind Narretta to Grassy
Spring, and yielding to Orianna's entreaties, she accompanied
her to Lexington, occupying a cabin which Mr.
Gorton built for her on the edge of the wood at the foot
of the garden. Here, many times a day, she saw her child,
who was now Robert's daily pupil. But Robert found it
more difficult to tame his Indian girl than he had at first
anticipated. On one subject, that of dress, she for a time
seemed incorrigible. Occasionally she would assume the
style worn by Marian, but soon casting it off, she would
don her old costume, in which she felt and looked most at
home. But one day the Indian dress mysteriously disappeared.
More than a week Orianna sought for it in vain;
then, with a flood of tears, she yielded the point, and wore
whatever her friends thought proper. Her complexion,
too, with which great pains was taken, gradually grew
fair, until all trace of the walnut stain disappeared.
In October she was placed in the best school of which
Philadelphia could then boast. She was always shy and
timid, but her gentle manners and sweet disposition, to say
nothing of the romance connected with her history, made
her a general favorite with her companions, while the
eagerness with which she sought for knowledge, rendered
her equally a favorite with her teachers. In speaking of
this once, to her mother, who was visiting her, she said,
“When dear Charlie died, I thought there was no one
left to love me, but now it seems that every body loves
me.”
Here we will say a word concerning little Ella, who,
two days after Charlie's funeral, and before Orianna's parentage
was known, had gone home with her father to
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[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]
Virginia. Almost constantly she talked of Orianna, and
on learning that she was Marian's sister, her delight was
unbounded. When intelligence was received that she had
been placed at school in Philadelphia, Capt. Wilder, yielding
to Ella's importunities, consented to send her there,
also. Ella had not taken into consideration how greatly
changed her Indian friend must necessarily be, and when,
on reaching Philadelphia, a beautiful young lady entered
the room, neatly and fashionably attired, she could scarcely
believe that it was her companion of the forest.
At Orianna's request they became room-mates, and it
was difficult to tell which was more child-like, the tall
maiden of twenty-one, or the curly-haired girl of nine.
Five years seems a long, long time, but to Orianna it
soon glided away, and then she left school, a much better
scholar than now is often graduated at our most fashionable
seminaries. During her stay in Philadelphia, she had become
greatly attached to the city, and Robert, whose
wealth would admit of his living where he pleased, purchased
a handsome dwelling, fitting it up according
to his own taste, which was rather luxurious.
Six years from the night of Marian's bridal, there was
another wedding at the house of Mr. Gorton, and Orianna,
now a beautiful woman of twenty-six, was the bride.
George and Marian both were present, together with a
lisping Charlie, and a dark-eyed baby “Orianna,” who
made most wondrous efforts to grasp the long diamond
earrings which hung from its auntie's ears, for, Indian-like,
Orianna's passion for jewelry was strong and well developed.
Old Narretta, too, was there, but the lovely young
creature whose head so fondly lay upon her lap, asking her
blessing, was unseen, for Narretta was now stone blind.
Already in her superstitious imagination warnings had
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come from the spirit world, bidding her prepare to meet
Owanno. Gladly would Orianna have taken her to her
Philadelphia home, but she answered, “No, I will die and
be buried in the woods;” and the first letter which went
from Mrs. Gorton to her daughter, told that Narretta was
at rest.
On the first anniversary of Orianna's wedding day, Robert,
still madly in love with his handsome wife, wished
to give her a pleasant surprise. Accordingly, besides the
numerous other costly presents which he brought her, he
presented her with a large square box, saying that its
contents were for her.
On opening it, Orianna saw disclosed to view the old
Indian dress, whose loss she years before had wept.
Bright as the sunlight of her happy home were the tears
which glittered in her large black eyes, as, glancing at the
rich heavy silk which now composed her dress, she said,
“Oh, Bob, how could you?” and “Bob” answered,
“How could I what?”
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The Gable-Roofed House at Snowdon.
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“Now, Mary,” said my Great-Aunt Sally, as o'er the
title of this tale her golden spectacles for a moment
peered, “Now Mary, what could possess you to choose
such a subject? Seems as though you had no knack in
getting up a taking title. Why don't you ever write
about `The Murdered Sisters,' or `Lover's Revenge,' or
some such thrilling themes?” and Aunt Sally settled
herself for her afternoon nap, in the large, stuffed easy
chair, before the grate of glowing Lehigh, greatly lamenting
the incapacity of her niece for “getting up taking
titles.”
Dear Aunt Sally, who, since my earliest remembrance,
has worn the same sweet, placid smile, the same neatly
fashioned caps, and carried the same large tortoise shell
snuff-box! could I not, if I would, weave a story of her
now so quietly passing into the winter of life!
And now her heavy breathings show that I and my
story have ceased to trouble her, while Malta, the pet kitten,
snugly nestled in its mistress' lap, purrs out her contentment,
occasionally lifting her velvet paw toward the
nose which bows and nods so threateningly above her.
Darkly across the floor fall the shadows of the locust
trees, whose long branches make mournful music as they
sweep against the loosened shutter. On the almost
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deserted side walk is heard the patter of the September rain,
and in the delicious quiet of a still, smoky, rainy afternoon,
commences the first chapter in the life of one, who, in the
somber old church at Snowdon, was christened Josephine
Clayton.
CHAPTER I. JOSEPHINE.
The house which Uncle Isaac Clayton, the shoemaker
of Snowdon, called his, was an old brown, gable-roofed
building, containing wide fire-places, huge ovens, ash-pits
of corresponding magnitude, and low rooms, where the
bare rafters looked menacingly down, strikingly suggestive
of bumped heads, especially to those who, being above
the medium height, carried their heads too high. Then
there were the little narrow windows, so far from the
floor, that every time a wagon was heard, the six redbacked,
splint-bottomed chairs were brought into requisition
by Uncle Isaac's six white-haired boys, all eager to
know “who's goin' by!”
It was in the same room which contained these six redbacked
chairs, that Josephine first opened her eyes on
the light of a fair September morning, and, in the same
room, too, the six white-haired boys, on tip-toe, stole up
to the bed to see the novelty, for never before had a
daughter graced Uncle Isaac's domestic circle.
“She makes up just such faces and looks just as ugly
as Jim did when he was a baby,” said Frank, the oldest
of the boys; and with a whistle which he meant should
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be very indifferent, he walked away, followed by all his
brothers save Jimmy, who lingered longer to look at the
stranger, who so unceremoniously had usurped his rights
and privileges as the youngest. Though cradled in the
lap of poverty, a more restless and ambitious being has
seldom sprung into existence than was she, whose soft cheek
and tiny fingers Jimmy so lovingly caressed. Yes, Jimmy,
love her now, lavish upon her all the affection of your
noble heart, for the time will come when she, a haughty,
beautiful woman, will turn her back on you, ashamed to
own that once beneath the old gable-roof she called you
brother.
Over Josephine's early days we will not linger, or stop
to tell how both early and late Uncle Isaac's pegs and
long waxed-ends flew, to meet the increased demands for
money which the new comer made, nor how Jimmy, in
order that his sister might have the bright pink dress,
which so well became her rosy cheeks and silken curls,
went, with generous self-denial, without the new Sunday
coat, wearing the old patched one, until it was hard to
tell which piece belonged to the original article.
It was no ordinary love which Jimmy Clayton bore
his only sister; and as she grew older and he saw her
passion for dress, he carefully hoarded every penny
which he earned, and then when she least expected it,
poured his treasure into her lap, thus, with mistaken
kindness, gratifying a fondness for dress far above her
means. Though possessing less of it than most small villages,
Snowdon had its ton, its upper set, who, while
they commented upon the marvelous beauty of Josephine,
still passed her by as one not of their number.
This was exceedingly mortifying to her pride, and when
at the school which she attended, Mabel Howland, the
lawyer's child, spoke sneeringly of “the poor shoemaker's
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daughter,” her spirit was fully roused, and she resolved
to leave no means untried until money was within her
reach. Accordingly, when sixteen years of age, she was
willingly apprenticed to a milliner in the city, with the
understanding that at the end of six months she should
return home for a short visit. Many articles which were
absolutely necessary for the coming winter, did Mrs.
Clayton deny herself, that a decent outfit might be procured
for the thankless girl, who, without a tear, left the
humble home she so much despised.
But, in spite of her faults, she left behind her loving
hearts, which many long days missed her bright, handsome
face and bounding footstep. Darker than ever
seemed the dark old kitchen at Snowdon, while the cricket
'neath the large flat stones which served as a hearth,
mournfully chirped, “she's gone,” as on the first evening
after her departure Mr. and Mrs. Clayton and Jimmy
gathered around the frugal board. The other five boys,
now grown to manhood, were away, three of them being
respectable farmers, and the other two mechanics.
Jimmy had always been a home boy, and he remained
with his mother, learning his father's trade, and working
in the little shop which had been built in the rear of the
house. In his childhood he had thirsted for more knowledge
than could be obtained by a yearly attendance of
five months at the district school of Snowdon, but, taught
by his father to believe that education was only for the
rich, he hushed the desire he had once had for something
noble and high, and patiently, day by day, he toiled uncomplainingly
in the shop, thinking himself sufficiently
rewarded by the smile of approbation with which his
mother always greeted him, and the few words of kindness
which his sister occasionally gave him. But in that
close, smoky shop was the germ of a great mind. The
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scholar and statesman was there, who one day would
stand forth among the great men of the land.
But not with Jimmy must we tarry. Our story leads
to the noisy city, where already had Josephine's uncommon
beauty been the subject of remark, drawing to Mrs.
Lamport's shop many who were attracted thither by the
hope of seeing the beautiful apprentice girl, who was frequently
sent to wait upon them. “What a pity that she
should be a milliner,” had more than once been whispered
in her hearing, and ere three months of her apprenticeship
had expired, she was devising schemes by which to
rise to the level for which she believed nature intended
her; and fortune, or rather ill fortune, seemed to favor
her wishes.
Among the millionaires of the city was a Mr. Hubbell,
who, with a gouty foot, restless mind, and nervous, sickly
daughter of eighteen, managed to kill time by playing
chess, reading politics, giving dinner parties, humoring
his daughter, visiting every fashionable watering place,
cursing the waiters, and finding fault generally. Not always,
however, had Mr. Hubbell possessed so peculiar a
disposition. Late in life his quiet bachelor habits had
been broken by a young, joyous creature, on whom he
doted with an almost idolatrous love; but the same sun
which first shone on him, a happy father, left him at its setting,
a stricken, desolate mourner. Anna, his cherished
girl-wife, had left him forever. He had not thought she
could die, and when they told him she was dying, with
the shriek of a madman he caught her in his arms, as if he
would contend with the king of terrors for the prize he
was bearing away. She died, and from the quiet, easy
husband, Enos Hubbell became a fault-finding, fretful, disconsolate
widower.
His daughter Anna had, in her childhood, been subject
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to severe and protracted fits of sickness, and now, at
eighteen, she was a pale, delicate, kind-hearted girl,
though rather peculiar in her likes and dislikes, for upon
whatever object her affections chanced to fasten, she clung
to it with a tenacity which nothing could weaken. For
one thing in particular she was famous. She was always
discovering people whom she thought “far below their
position in life.” These she generally took under her
special notice, and as might be expected, usually succeeded
in making them both discontented and unhappy.
Josephine had been in Mrs. Lamport's employment
nearly three months, when she was one morning sent to
wait upon Miss Hubbell, who came on some trifling errand.
Something in the face and appearance of the apprentice
girl deeply interested Anna, who felt sure that
for once she discriminated rightly,—that she had at
last found one really worthy of being her protege,—in
short, Josephine was discovered! Many were the visits
made to Mrs. Lamport's, until the intimacy between
Anna and Josephine became a subject of gossip among
the shop girls, each of whom, according to her own pretensions
for beauty, was jealous of her handsome rival.
Anna Hubbell's nature was largely spiced with romance,
and she had long sighed for a companion near her age,
who would be the confidant of all her thoughts and feelings,
and in Josephine Clayton, she fancied she had
at last found the desired friend. She believed, too, it
would be an act of kindness to lend her a helping hand,
for Josephine had often insinuated that reverse of fortune,
alone, had placed her where she was. To her father
Anna first communicated her plan, seizing her opportunity
when he was not only free from gout, but had also
just beaten her at chess three times out of four. First
she descanted on Josephine's extreme beauty and natural
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refinement of manner; next she spoke of the misfortune
which had obliged her to become a milliner, and finished
her argument by telling how lonely she herself was,
when obliged by ill health to remain in the house for
weeks.
Mr. Hubbell heard her through, and then striking the
ashes from his cigar, said, “Why don't you come to the
point at once, and say you want this girl to pet, flatter,
and make a fool of you generally?”
“And if I do,” answered Anna, “you have no objections,
have you?” And Anna wound her arms around
her father's neck, until a twinge of the gout suddenly returning,
he threw her half way across the room, exclaiming,
“For pity's sake and the old Harry, lug in a washwoman
for all of me, if you wish to!”
So the matter was settled, and in the course of an hour,
a note was dispatched to Josephine, bidding her come
that evening, if possible, as her friend had something
pleasant to communicate. Just as the street lamps were
lighted, Josephine ascended the marble steps of Mr.
Hubbell's stately dwelling, and in a moment was in Anna's
room, where she soon learned why she was sent for.
So unexpected was the proposal, that for a time she was
mute with surprise, and then on her knees she thanked
Anna Hubbell for the great good she was doing her.
The bells of the city were tolling the hour of nine ere
Josephine returned to her pleasant room at Mrs. Lamport's,
which now looked poor and humble, compared
with the elegant home she was soon to have. When
Mrs. Lamport was informed of the plan, she refused to
release Josephine until the term of her apprenticeship
should have expired, alleging, as one reason, that Josephine
might sometime find her trade of great service to
her. Accordingly, though much against her will,
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Josephine was obliged to remain until the end of the six
months; but she resolved not to go home, and about the
time when she would be expected, she wrote to her parents,
telling them of her future prospects, and saying
that, as Miss Hubbell wished for her immediately, she
should be obliged to forego her expected visit.
Owing to some mistake, this letter did not reach its
destination, and Jimmy, all impatient to see his beloved
sister, started for the city on purpose to accompany her
home. Going to Mrs. Lamport's, he was told that “Josephine
had gone out shopping.” “Gone to buy some
presents for mother, I presume,” thought he, as he retraced
his steps through the crowded streets. Coming
to a jeweler's shop, he concluded to step in, as he had
long contemplated the purchase of a watch. At the further
end of the store were seated two young ladies, surrounded
by jewelry, from which they were making selections.
As Jimmy entered the door, one of the young ladies
glanced at him; their eyes met, and involuntarily
Jimmy started forward, half exclaiming, “Josephine!”
but the lady's lip curled scornfully, and a dark frown lowered
on her brow as she turned quickly away. Jimmy
was puzzled, and glancing, for the first time, at the young
girl's dress, he thought, “Of course 't is n't Josephine;
what a blunder I should have made!”
Just then the clerk asked him to step into an adjoining
room, where they would show him the kind of watches
he wished for. As he was passing the two ladies, the one
whose face he had not seen looked up at him. He would
have thought no more of this occurrence, had he not overheard
her say to her companion, “Why, Josephine, that
young man looks enough like you to be your brother.”
The reply, too, he distinctly heard, uttered in Josephine's
well remembered voice: “Oh fie, Miss Hubbell!
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[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]
pray, don't take that clownish clod-pole to be my
brother!”
Jimmy instantly turned toward the speaker, but with
her companion she was leaving the shop. Mechanically
declining to purchase anything, he also left, and, going to
the hotel, called for a room, where, locking himself in, he
burst into a flood of tears. “Josephine, his sister Josephine,
was ashamed to own him,—had denied him!”
For half an hour he wept bitterly; then over him a reaction
stole, and rising up, he rapidly paced the room, saying,
“Ashamed of me!—she shall see the day when she
will be glad that I am her brother.” Then in that little
room was a resolution made, and a course of life marked
out which made for America a son of whom she has since
been proud.
That evening Jimmy met his sister at Mrs. Lamport's,
but not as in the olden time. A change had come over
him, which even Josephine noticed, although she scarcely
regretted it. He offered no remonstrance when told that
she would not accompany him home; but, after bidding
her good-by, he turned back, and with a scarcely steady
voice, said, “When I return home, and mother, your
mother, weeps because you do not come, shall I tell her
that you sent no word of love?”
“Why, Jim,” said Josephine, “what a strange mood
you are in to-night! Of course, I send my love to all of
them. Have n't I told you so? If I have n't, it was because
I forgot it.”
“One of us, at least, will not forget you so easily,” answered
Jimmy, but he told not what fresh cause he had
for remembrance.
-- 333 -- p598-338
CHAPTER II. A PEEP AT THE GABLE-ROOFED HOUSE AT SNOWDON.
[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]
Never was floor scoured whiter than was the floor in
the long, dark kitchen at Snowdon, on the day when Mrs.
Clayton, with a mother's joy, said, “Josephine is coming
to-night.” Everything within told of recent renovation
and fixing up, and the large square room, whose four
bare walls had echoed back the first shrill cry of Uncle
Isaac's seven children, now looked really neat and pretty,
with its bright rag carpet, its polished brass andirons,
and its six flag-bottomed chairs, for the old red-backs had
long since been removed to the kitchen, their place being
supplied by six yellow chairs, which now in turn gave up
their long standing right to flag-bottoms of a more modern
date.
The two boys who lived nearest came home, the one
bringing several pounds of coffee, while the other brought
the snow-white sugar loaf, which was only to be used in
Josephine's cup, for “Josephine was coming home.”
Yes, “Josephine was coming home,” and Uncle Isaac finished
work full three hours earlier, in order that he might
have ample time to remove the heavy beard, don the
clean linen, and assume the blue, Sunday coat with the
brass buttons.
In one corner of the old rickety barn, a turkey, the
only turkey Isaac Clayton owned, had long been fattening,
and now in the oven was roasting, for “Josephine
was coming home;” and as the sun drew nearer and
nearer to the western horizon, Mrs. Clayton's step grew
lighter, while the smile on her face grew brighter and
more exultant. Again was the white counterpane on the
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[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]
best bed smoothed, and the large round pillows gently
patted, for Josephine's soft, fair cheek would ere long
nestle there. Alas! poor, fond, but disappointed mother!
The Josephine, so anxiously waited for, slept that night
on finer linen and softer couch than could be found, I
ween, 'neath the gable-roofed house at Snowdon.
Now the sun has set behind a pile of purple clouds,
and there is darkness in the nooks and corners of the
house at Snowdon. The maple fire in the large square
room is crackling and laughing and blazing, and casting
on the somber walls fantastic shadows, which chase each
other, “chassee, cross over, and then cross back,” while
to the dancing flames Uncle Isaac adds still another stick,
for it is a raw March night, and Josephine will be cold.
Upon the time-worn bridge which crosses Snowdon creek
is heard the sound of wheels; and the crack of the driver's
whip, together with the tramp of many feet, shows that
the stage is coming at last. But what! Why does not
the driver stop at the little board gate which stands so
invitingly open? Is he going to let Josephine dismount
in the muddy street?
Before these queries are satisfactorily solved, the stage
rattles on, and only Jimmy stands among them, beset by
inquiries for Josephine.
“Wait until I get to the fire and I will tell you,” said
he, as he blew his red fingers; but Mrs. Clayton could
not wait, and leading him toward the house, she said,
“Tell me, is Josephine sick?”
“Perfectly well, I believe,” he answered, and then,
when seated before the cheerful blaze, he told them why
he was alone; but of the insult he had received he said
nothing. That was a secret, which he kept to himself,
brooding over it until its venom ate into his inmost soul.
It was a sad group which gathered around the supper
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table that night; and, as over the dishes she had prepared
with so much care Jimmy saw his mother's tears fall, his
heart swelled with resentment, and he longed to tell her
how unworthy was the selfish girl who scorned her own
brother, but he did not, though he resolved, by an increased
kindness of manner, to compensate his honored
mother for the love which Josephine refused to give.
Noble Jimmy! In this world there are choice spirits like
yours, but their name is not legion!
Next morning the two older boys returned to their employment,
while Mr. Clayton sold to Mabel Howland, who
had long coveted them, the fairy-like slippers, which for
two weeks he had kept for his daughter; and amid a rain
of tears Mrs. Clayton put away in the drawer the lamb's-wool
stockings which she had knit for Josephine, weaving
in with each thread the golden fibers of a mother's undying
love. After his daily work was done, Jimmy stole
up to the little green trunk under the gable-roof where
lay the pile of bright half dollars he had hoarded for Josephine.
Counting out half, he threw them into his mother's
lap, and with the remainder repaired to the Snowdon
bookstore, exchanging them for their value in books.
The old desire for learning had returned, and early and
late was each leisure moment improved. His parents offered
no opposition, but approved his plan of reciting two
hours each day to Mr. Allen, the clergyman, who became
much interested in the young student. “Excelsior” was
Jimmy's motto, and his teacher became surprised at the
rapid improvement and the magnitude of the mind committed
to his care. Ere long, Jimmy's fame as a scholar
became known throughout the village, attracting toward
him many who had never before noticed the humble boy,
except, perhaps, to remark his fine face and figure. Now,
however, they came thronging about him, offering books
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and advice in large quantities. But Jimmy respectfully
declined their attentions, for Mr. Allen's library, to which
he had free access, contained whatever books he needed,
and his good sense, together with Mr. Allen's experience,
furnished all the advice necessary. At one time Mr. Allen
hoped that the brilliant talents, which he knew his
young friend possessed, would be devoted to the ministry;
but Jimmy's taste and disposition turned toward
the bar, and as Judge Howland was in want of a clerk,
Mr. Clayton was induced to give up the services of his
son, who now bent all his energies upon the study of law,
and the course of instruction which Mr. Allen had marked
out for him. Leaving him to pursue his onward path to
greatness, we will return to Josephine, who for some
time has been the bosom friend and companion of Anna
Hubbell.
CHAPTER III. LOCUST GROVE.
About fifty miles west of the city, at the foot of a
bright sheet of water, lies the small village of Lockland,
consisting of one broad, handsome street, and two narrow
ones, diverging at right angles. The quiet which forever
reigns in this secluded spot, seemed not unlike the deep
hush of a Sabbath morning. In the center of the village
stand the two dry goods stores, where kind-hearted clerks,
in consideration of its being you, measured off calico at a
shilling per yard, which positively cost fifteen cents, and
silks for a dollar, which could n't be bought in the city
for less than a dollar and a quarter.
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Directly opposite these sacrificing stores stands the hotel,
on whose creaking old sign is written in flaming letters,
“Temperance House,” although the village gossips,
particularly the woman who lives next door, have frequently
hinted, confidentially of course, that the word
“temperance” was all humbug. Side by side with the
hotel stands the old brick church, the only church in
Lockland.
A little out of the village, and on an eminence which
overlooks it, is a handsome, white cottage, which, from
the number of locust trees around it, had long been
known as “Locust Grove.” This cottage was the property
of Mrs. Wilson, Anna Hubbell's grandmother, and
thither, each summer, Anna repaired, in hopes of coaxing
to her pale cheeks the hue of the roses which grew in
such profusion around the doors, windows, and porticos
of her grandmother's dwelling.
Across the way was another, a large building, elegant
in structure and imposing in appearance. It was owned
by Gen. Granby, who had retired from public life, and
was living upon the interest of his money. These two
families were on terms of intimacy with but few of the
villagers, and consequently were called proud and haughty
by those who had nothing to do except to canvass affairs
at Locust Grove and Elmwood Lodge, as Gen. Granby's
residence was termed.
One morning in early June, the little village suddenly
found itself in a state of fermentation, occasioned by Mrs.
Wilson's traveling carriage, which passed up Main street,
and from the windows of which looked forth, not only the
plain, delicate features of Anna Hubbell, but also another, a
most beautiful face. Such eyes, such curls, and more than
all, so dazzling a complexion, had seldom been seen in Lockland,
and the villagers were all eager to know who the
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stranger could be, and why Anna Hubbell had brought her
there. Did she not fear her influence over George Granby,
to whom, for a long time, she was known to have been engaged,
and who, with his sister Delphine, had been traveling
in Europe, and was now daily expected home? Still
more was the gossip increased when, that afternoon, Lockland's
back parlors and sitting rooms were vacated by their
inmates, who from behind half-raised curtains and half-closed
shutters, peeped out, while with long black skirts
and leghorn hats, Anna Hubbell and her companion galloped
leisurely through the village and down upon the lake
shore. But not upon Anna did an eye rest. All were
fixed upon the lady at her side, whose red lips curled in
scorn at the same curiosity of which she had often been
guilty in the gable-roofed house in far off Snowdon.
That night, in Anna's dressing-room, Josephine was
weeping, and to Anna's repeated inquiries as to the cause
of her tears, she at last answered, “It is foolish, but I
cannot help it. In the city all knew I was your hired
companion, but here, in the country, — oh, need they
know?”
“I appreciate your feelings,” said Anna, “but rest assured
that no one shall know you are not fully my equal.
Grandmother, indeed, knows your real position, but if I
request it, she will be silent.”
So the terrible secret that Josephine was poor, and a
dependent, was kept from the villagers, who marveled at
her great beauty and the richness of her attire, for all her
wages were expended in dress. Not one penny ever
found its way to Snowdon, where it would have been joyfully
received, not because they were in actual want of it,
but because it came from Josephine.
Mrs. Granby, who was an amiable and lady-like woman,
treated Josephine with great cordiality, frequently
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expressing a wish that her daughter, Delphine, would return,
as it would be so pleasant for her to have two companions
so near. Josephine had no objections to seeing
George Granby, whose many excellences Anna each day
lauded to the skies, but she greatly dreaded the return
of Miss Granby. Six years before, when but a child, she
remembered that Mabel Howland had one day brought
to school a cousin, Dell Granby, two or three years her
senior, and whose place of residence she felt sure was at
Lockland. Always fearing that her humble parentage
might be discovered, she trembled lest Dell Granby
should recognize her, or that in some way her real position
should become known.
“I shall soon know the worst,” thought she, as one afternoon,
about three weeks after her arrival at Lockland,
she saw a handsome carriage drive up in front of Gen.
Granby's residence. From it sprang a gentleman, who
was quickly followed by a young lady of remarkably elegant
appearance. After embracing Mrs. Granby, who
came out to meet her, she turned toward the window,
where Josephine was sitting, and thinking it was Anna,
playfully threw a kiss from the tips of her snowy, jeweled
fingers; then she instantly disappeared in the long hall,
followed by the gentleman.
“That must be Dell Granby,” thought Josephine; “but
if that is her brother, he is not one-half as fine looking as
Anna has described him to be; but then she is in love,
and of course no judge.”
Just then, Anna, who had been sleeping, awoke. On
hearing of Delphine's arrival, her cheeks alternately
flushed and grew pale, as she nervously ordered her waiting
maid to dress her becomingly, preserving at the same
time the utmost simplicity. When her toilet was completed,
she asked Josephine's opinion. Both were
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standing before the mirror, and as Josephine noticed the contrast
between herself, dressed as usual, and Anna, arrayed
in the most becoming manner, the thought for the first
time entered her mind, that if possible she would supplant
her benefactress in George Granby's affections.
At that moment a servant entered, bearing a tiny note,
Anna hastily read it, and then throwing herself on the
sofa, burst into tears. Josephine ordered the servant
girl to leave the room, and then, while Anna's face was
buried in her hands, she picked up the note, and in a lady's
delicate handwriting, read:
“Dear Anna—I know you will be provoked; I was,
but I have recovered my equanimity now. George, the
naughty boy, has not come home. He is going to remain
for two years in a German university. I am the
bearer of many letters and presents for you, which you
must come for. Hugh M'Gregor accompanied me home.
You remember I wrote you about him. We met in Paris,
since which time he has clung to me like a brother, and I
don't know whether to like him or not. He is rich and
well educated, but terribly awkward. It would make
you laugh to see him trying to play the agreeable to the
ladies; and then,—shall I tell you the dreadful thing?
he wears a wig, and is ten years older than I am! Now,
you know if I liked him very much, all this would make no
difference, for I would marry anything but a cobbler, if I
loved him, and he were intelligent.
“By the way, mamma tells me there is a handsome
young lady with you, but whether in the capacity of
seamstress or companion, I have not found time to ask.
Pray, come over, sans ceremonie.
“Yours, as ever, Dell.”
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The cause of Anna's grief can be explained in a few
words. Two years before, when only sixteen, she had
been betrothed to George Granby, whom she ardently
loved, fearing, at the same time, that her affection was but
half returned. Their engagement had been a sort of family
arrangement, in which George tacitly acquiesced, for
Anna was not indifferent to him, although she possessed
but few attractions which could fascinate a fashionable
young man of twenty-two. Still, he had never seen one
whom he liked better, and as Anna was extremely young,
he hoped that during the five years which were to elapse
before their marriage, she would be greatly improved.
The last year he had spent in Europe, whither his sister,
a girl of superior endowments, had accompanied him.
He wrote frequently to Anna, his letters being more
like a brother's than a lover's. Still she prized them
highly, and had looked forward joyfully to his return.
But now he was not coming, and as she threw herself
upon the sofa, she thought, with some reason, “I know
he does not love me.”
Josephine, too, was disappointed. If George came not,
her plan could not well be carried out. But not long did
she dwell upon this. The words “seamstress,” and “companion,”
troubled her, and awoke within her heart a hatred
for Delphine Granby, as undying as it was unfounded.
Soon, however, her thoughts took another channel. This
M'Gregor, was he not worth winning; suppose he was
awkward, he was rich! and Josephine smiled exultingly,
as, glancing in the mirror, she smoothed her luxuriant
curls, and said, “the shoemaker's daughter will yet outshine
them all.”
-- 342 -- p598-347
CHAPTER IV. DELPHINE AND M'GREGOR.
[figure description] Page 342.[end figure description]
In Mrs. Wilson's parlors Josephine first met the two
persons who were so greatly to influence her after life.
It was the day following their arrival, and Anna had invited
them to tea. Pleading a headache, Josephine did
not make her appearance until evening, thinking her
charms would be greatly enhanced by candle light.
With all the dignity of a queen she swept into the
room, and Anna herself was surprised at the case with
which she returned the salutations of M'Gregor and Delphine.
Seating herself upon a low ottoman, she for a
time seemed unconscious of M'Gregor's presence, but
fixed her eyes curiously upon Delphine, who, she concluded,
was the most polished, lady-like person she had
ever seen. Envy, too, crept in, and mingled with her
admiration, for though she knew Miss Granby was not as
beautiful as herself, there was still a nobleness, an elegance
of appearance about her, which would readily distinguish
her from a thousand.
At length it was Delphine's turn to look, and her bright
hazel eyes fastened upon Josephine, whose face turned
scarlet, for she fancied that the hated words, “milliner,”
“shoemaker,” “gable-roof,” were stamped upon her brow
as legibly as “seamstress,” “companion,” were written
in the tiny note. Delphine was puzzled at Josephine's
confusion, but soon forgetting it, she complied with Anna's
request, and seated herself at the piano.
“Do you play, Miss Clayton?” asked M'Gregor.
“No, sir,” was the reply.
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“Nor sing?” he returned.
“Certainly not,” Josephine answered somewhat haughtily.
“If I could sing I should play, of course. They
usually go together.”
M'Gregor was taken aback. He was perfectly bewildered
with Josephine's beauty, although her cool reserve
had slightly disconcerted him; and as he was nothing of a
lady's man, he had tried hard to think of something to
say to her, and now that he said it, 'twas not the thing.
Josephine, however, had scanned him from head to foot,
wig and all, and with Delphine's assertion, “he is rich,”
still ringing in her ears, she had secretly concluded that
he would do, in spite of his awkwardness. Fearing lest
he should question her on other points than music, she
did not wait for him to broach another subject, but did it
herself, by asking about his European tour.
Once during the evening she heard Delphine telling
Anna that on her return home she had stopped for a day
and a night with her cousin Mabel, at Snowdon. In an
instant her brow became crimson; but her fears were
groundless, for not a word was spoken of the “gable-roof,”
and her heart was beginning to beat at its usual
rate, when Delphine added, “By the way, Anna, I must
tell you that at Snowdon I saw my beau ideal.”
“Indeed,” said Anna, and M'Gregor continued: “Oh,
yes, and she has done nothing since but talk of the handsome
student, who is still in his minority.”
“What is his name?” asked Anna.
“Clayton, I believe,” answered M'Gregor, and then
turning to Josephine, he said, “A relative of yours, perhaps!
You remind me of him.”
“I am not aware of his being so, for I have no relations
in Snowdon!” was Josephine's unhesitating answer;
and in the first part of the assertion, she spoke
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the truth, for at Jimmy's request, a knowledge of his
studies had been kept from her, and she did not believe
that Jimmy, her homespun brother, could possibly interest
the elegant Miss Granby.
But all doubt on the subject was removed, when, as
Delphine was about to depart, she remarked, “There is
something, too, so romantic about this young Clayton.
His father, as I am told, is a poor shoemaker at Snowdon,
and his son, until recently, has worked with him at his
trade. Just think of it, a learned shoemaker. Of course
he will be a great man;” and she ran gaily down the
steps followed by M'Gregor, horribly jealous of Jimmy
Clayton, two-thirds in love with Josephine Clayton, and
never suspecting the relationship between them.
That night Josephine bitterly repented her falsehood,
for if Delphine Granby could be interested in Jimmy,
knowing his poverty, she really would not scorn his sister;
but 'twas too late to retract, and though she knew that,
sooner or later, her lie would be known, she resolved to
put a bold face upon the matter and make the best of it.
She had never spoken of Snowdon as being the residence
of her parents, consequently Anna had no suspicion that
the student whom Delphine extolled so highly was in any
way connected with her protege.
It would make our story too long to enumerate the
many ways in which Josephine sought to enslave
M'Gregor, who for three weeks lingered at Lockland,
vacillating between Delphine and herself. Josephine
fascinated him, but there was about her something
which bade him beware; and he never would have
thought seriously of her, had not Delphine kindly but
firmly refused the hand he offered her, her mother meantime
wondering what she could object to, for if he was
not quite as polished as some, he was rich, well educated,
-- 345 -- p598-350
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and amiable to a fault, or as one of the villagers said,
“wonderful clever.” But it was this very cleverness
which Delphine disliked. Had M'Gregor possessed more
intellect, more energy and decision of character, she
might —, but no, she had seen Jimmy Clayton, and
though she would not own it, either to herself or to
M'Gregor, the remembrance of his high, classical brow,
bright, intelligent eye, and sad, handsome face, influenced
her decision.
After M'Gregor's first mortification was over, he turned
to Josephine, and in the sunshine of her smiles soon forgot
that Delphine had said, “I can never love you;”
but, other than by actions, he did not commit himself, and
when he left Lockland, he was not pledged to Josephine,
who for several days kept her bed, troubling in every
possible way poor Mrs. Wilson, who wondered at her
grand-daughter's fancy in choosing such a companion, as
much as Aunt Sally wondered at my choice of a subject.
CHAPTER V. JIMMY.
Thick and fast from the heavy laden clouds the fringed
snow-flakes had fallen the livelong day, covering sidewalk
and street, doorstep and roof, with one thick vail of
whiteness. As the night closed in, the feathered flakes
ceased to fall, while in the western sky the December sun
left a few red beams, the promise of a fair to-morrow.
In Mr. Hubbell's parlor the astral lamp was lighted, and
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coals were heaped in the glowing grate, whose bright blaze
rendered still more brilliant the flowers of the costly
Brussels. Curtains of rich damask shaded the windows,
and around the marble center-table were seated our fair
friends, Josephine, Anna, and Delphine, the last of whom
had recently come to spend the winter in the city.
Josephine seemed nervously anxious, starting up at every
sound, and then blushing as she resumed her former
attitude. The cause of her restlessness was, that she was
hourly expecting Mr. M'Gregor, her affianced husband!
Two weeks before she left Lockland he had visited her,
and ere his return she had promised to be his wife, regretting,
meantime, the fatality which left George Granby
across the Atlantic until she was given to another. “If
I could only see him,” thought she, “only have an opportunity
to judge of his merits and my chance of success;”
but it could not be. The ocean lay between them; so
she engaged herself to M'Gregor, with many assurances
of affection, of the sincerity of which our readers can
judge as well as ourselves.
As yet Delphine had no thought that her “beau ideal”
was aught to Josephine, although Anna knew it all.
Compelled by necessity, Josephine had, with many tears
and protestations of grief, confessed her falsehood, and
Anna not only forgave her, but weakly took her again
to her confidence, thinking her sufficiently punished by
the sorrow she professed to have felt on account of her
sin.
M'Gregor had written that he should probably be in
the city that night, and each moment they were expecting
him. At length the sound of a footstep was heard on the
threshold, the door-bell echoed through the hall, Delphine
and Anna exchanged smiles, while Josephine half rose
from her seat, and as the parlor door opened the six eyes
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of the three girls fell upon—M'Gregor? no, not M'Gregor,
but Jimmy Clayton! He had come to the city on business
for Judge Howland, and had been commissioned by
Mabel to carry a letter to her cousin Delphine, besides
her love, which of course could not be sent in a letter!
Delphine arose to meet him, but not on her did his eye
rest. It wandered on until it fell upon Josephine, to
whom Delphine immediately introduced him. A little
sarcastically he answered, “Thank you, Miss Granby,
but I hardly need an introduction to my own sister!”
“Your sister!” repeated Delphine. “Impossible!”
And she glanced quickly at Josephine, who seeing no escape
sprang forward, overwhelming Jimmy with caresses
and questions concerning Snowdon and its inhabitants,
taking care to inquire after the rich and those whom Delphine
had probably heard of, though she herself had
never exchanged over a dozen words with them.
After a time Jimmy gave Delphine her letter, which
she received with a smile and a glance of her eyes which
made his blood tingle, and when Anna asked him if it
were not unpleasant traveling, he answered, “Quite well,
I thank you!”
By this time Josephine's old coldness had returned.
She was afraid M'Gregor might come, and, although she
was not now ashamed to own her brother, she feared the
result. Jimmy soon arose to go, but Anna insisted upon
his remaining all night. This plan Delphine warmly seconded,
and Jimmy began to waver. He looked at his
sister, one word from whom would have decided the matter,
but that word was not spoken, and Jimmy departed,
saying he would call again on the morrow.
Scarcely had the door closed after him when Delphine
looked sternly and inquiringly at Josephine, who, in the
most theatrical manner, fell upon her knees, sobbing out
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the confession of her falsehood, and finishing by saying,
“Do not betray me to M'Gregor, will you?”
“M'Gregor!” repeated Delphine scornfully, “You
wrong him if you suppose he would love you less for
your poverty.”
“'Tis not that, 'tis not that,” said Josephine, and Delphine
continued: “But he would despise you for scorning
your own parents, and refusing to own a brother of
whom you should be proud.”
“But you will not betray me?” persisted Josephine.
“Promise that you will not, and a falsehood shall never
again sully my lips.”
“Of course I shall not tell M'Gregor,” answered Delphine,
“but it will be long ere I can again respect you.”
Here Anna interposed a word for her friend, saying that
“Delphine had never known what it was to contend with
poverty, and have the cold finger of scorn pointed at
her—”
“And if I had,” interrupted Delphine, “I should not
revenge myself by pointing my finger at my parents and
brother.”
There now ensued an embarrassed silence, and, as it
was past the hour for M'Gregor to arrive, Josephine repaired
to her room, gratified to think that if her sin had
found her out, M'Gregor had not.
The next day M'Gregor did not come, but Jimmy did,
and as he was about to leave, he asked Josephine to accompany
him home, saying his mother would be delighted to
see her. Delphine waited for Josephine's answer, that
she could not go, as she was expecting a friend, and
then said, “Suppose, Mr. Clayton, you take me as a substitute.”
“You!” exclaimed Anna. “You go to Snowdon!”
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“Yes; why not,” answered Delphine. “Mabel is anxious
to see me, and the sleighing is fine.”
Accordingly, next morning, Jimmy's sleigh stood before
Mr. Hubbell's door, and Delphine, warmly wrapped
in furs and merinos, tripped down the steps, and was
soon seated by Jimmy, whose polite attentions during
the ride only increased the estimation in which she held
him.
The same day that Delphine left the city, M'Gregor
came, overjoyed to meet his beautiful Josephine, whom,
with strange infatuation, he sincerely loved. That evening,
as they sat alone in the parlor, Josephine, fearing
that in some way he might discover the falsehood, determined
to tell him herself. In the smoothest manner possible,
she told her story, saying that her parents now
lived in Snowdon, but intimated that they had not always
resided there. Jimmy was then mentioned, and
acknowledged to be her brother, although she said that
he had been long in Judge Howland's office ere she knew
of it.
M'Gregor heard her through, and then drawing her
more closely toward him, assured her that he did not love
her less for being poor, for he had never supposed her
rich, and ended by proposing to accompany her to Snowdon.
The proposal was made in such a way that Josephine
could not refuse, but she determined not to go, for
though M'Gregor might love her with poverty in the distance,
she fancied that a sight of the “old gable-roof”
and “shoemaker's shop” would at once drive him from
her. The next day was fixed upon for the journey, but
when the morning came, Josephine did not appear at the
breakfast table, sending word that she was suffering
from an attack of the influenza! Snowdon of course
was given up, and M'Gregor paced the long parlors,
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inquiring every ten minutes for Josephine, who knew
enough not to be convalescent too soon, and all day
long did penance by keeping her bed and drinking herb
tea.
CHAPTER VI. SNOWDON.
With unbounded delight Mabel welcomed her cousin
Delphine, but she whispered, “Now Dell, I know well
enough that nothing but the agreeable escort of James
Clayton could have brought you to this stupid place in
the winter.”
Delphine's only answer was a deeper glow on her cheek,
which she declared was owing to the chill night air, and
Mabel said no more on the subject until they retired for
the night. Then, in the privacy of the dressing room
and before a cheerful fire, she teased and tortured her
cousin concerning her evident preference for the young
student, saying, “I know he is noble and generous, and
father thinks him a gem of rare talents, but after all—”
“After all what?” asked Delphine, suspending for a
moment the operation of brushing her silken hair.
“Why he is of a very low family,” answered Mabel, and
Delphine continued: “Why low? Is there anything bad
or disreputable about them?”
“Oh, no,” said Mabel. “I don't suppose there is a
more honest, upright man in town than cobbler Clayton,
but they are dreadfully poor, or, as mother says, shiftless.
Why, Dell, one glance at the old gable-roof, and one
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whiff of the leather smell, constantly around it, would spoil
all romance connected with the handsome son.”
“Pshaw!” was Delphine's only reply, and there the
conversation ended; nor was it resumed again until two
or three days after, when Delphine announced her intention
of calling on Mrs. Clayton!
“Call on Mrs. Clayton?” exclaimed Mabel, who was
listlessly turning over the leaves of her music book, and
occasionally striking the keys of her piano. “Call on
Mrs. Clayton? You cannot be in earnest.”
“I am,” answered Delphine, and Mabel continued:
“Pray don't ask me to accompany you.”
“You need not be alarmed on that score, as I greatly
prefer going alone,” was Delphine's answer, as she left the
room.
In a few moments she was on her way to the “gable-roof,”
which really looked poor enough; for, as Mrs. Howland
had expressed it, Uncle Isaac was rather “shiftless,”
and though he now had only himself and wife to care for,
he was worth but little more than when, in years gone by,
seven hungry children clustered around his fireside. His
wife, who was greatly his superior, was a paragon of neatness,
and made the most of what little she had. On this
afternoon, with clean cap and gingham apron, she sat
knitting, so wholly absorbed in her thoughts of Josephine,
that, though thrice repeated, she heard not the timid
knock of Delphine, nor was she aware of her presence until
the lady stood before her. Then, in some confusion,
she arose, but Delphine immediately introduced herself,
apologizing for her call, by saying that she thought Mrs.
Clayton might be glad to hear from Josephine. Eagerly
then her hand was grasped, and for the next hour Mrs.
Clayton listened breathlessly, while Delphine recounted
everything concerning Josephine which she thought would
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interest her mother. As she saw how many times the
gingham apron was brought into requisition, to wipe away
the tears of maternal love, she felt indignant toward the
heartless girl who could thus spurn her home and fireside,
because they lay beneath a gable-roof.
Swiftly the time flew on, and though upon the polished
stove the highly polished tea-kettle boiled and boiled, and
then boiled over, Mrs. Clayton heard it not; and though
token after token that daylight was departing fell around
them, still Delphine sat there, gazing at the high, placid
brow and clear, hazel eyes of her new acquaintance, and
tracing therein a likeness to Jimmy, who at last suddenly
opened the door, astonished beyond measure when he found
who was his mother's companion. At his unexpected appearance,
Mrs. Clayton started up, exclaiming, “Bless me,
it's past tea time! How I forgot myself!” while Delphine,
casting a rueful glance at the little narrow window, said,
“Dear me, how dark it is! What shall I do?”
“Stay to tea,” answered Mrs. Clayton, “and then Jimmy
will see you home. He'd just as lief, I know!”
For an instant Jimmy's and Delphine's eyes met, and
the next moment a velvet cloak and rich hood were lying
on the little lounge, while Delphine, demurely seating herself
in the corner, thought, “How funny! I wonder what
Mabel will say. Perhaps she'll think I came here on purpose
to see him; but I didn't.”
By this time tea was ready, and though the table lacked
the transparent china, silver forks, and delicate napkins,
to which Delphine had always been accustomed, she has
frequently declared that never was tea so hot, bread so
white, butter so sweet, or honey so delicious, as were they
that night in Isaac Clayton's sitting room. After supper,
Jimmy, inasmuch as his mother had offered his services,
felt in duty bound to conduct Miss Delphine home, and
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all the misgivings which she had felt as to what Mabel
would say, were put to flight by that delightful moonlight
walk.
“I declare, Dell,” was Mabel's first exclamation, “you
are actually reversing the order of things, and paying
your addresses to young Clayton, instead of waiting for
him to pay them to you.”
“And shows her sense, too,” said Judge Howland, who
was present, “for James, who looks upon her as far
above him, would never presume to address her first.
But, Mab,” he continued, “you had better have an eye on
her, for, in case Dell does not secure him, I intend him for
my own son-in-law.”
“Oh, capital!” said Mabel, clapping her hands, “won't
that be nice? He can attend to all of Uncle Isaac's lawsuits,
and, in return, Uncle Isaac can make all our shoes.”
“But I am in earnest,” said Judge Howland, seriously.
“You will never do better.”
“How absurd,” said Mabel. “Why, he is six months
younger than I am.”
“Six months be hanged,” answered the judge. “Why,
there's your mother, five years my senior, though I believe
she owns to only one!”
“Mr. Howland, how can you talk so?” said the highly
scandalized lady, who, with fair, round face, clear, blue
eyes, and white, sound teeth, really looked five years the
junior of her portly spouse, and probably was.
Had Jimmy been questioned concerning his feelings for
Delphine Granby, he might have pointed to some bright
star, which, while it hovered round and over his pathway,
was still too far distant for him ever to hope to reach
it. And yet, no matter how big the law book was which
he opened, or how intently over its printed leaves he pored,
one face, one form, and one voice ever came between him
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[figure description] Page 354.[end figure description]
and his studies; and once, in making out a bond, he wrote,
instead of “Know all men by these presents, &c,” “Know
Delphine Granby, &c.,” nor was he aware of his mistake,
until, with the best natured twinkle in the world, Judge
Howland pointed it out, saying, “Not so bad, after all;
for if a woman knows it, all the world stand a fair chance
of knowing it, too.”
Poor Jimmy! How he blushed, and stammered, and
apologized, apologized, stammered, and blushed, while
the judge good humoredly said, “Never mind; Dell
is a girl of the right stamp, and if you play your cards
right, 'tis not her fault if you do not win her.”
CHAPTER VII. THE NEW HOUSE.
Christmas came and went during Delphine's stay at
Snowdon, and a few days after it, she went to visit Mrs.
Clayton, who with eager joy told her that Christmas
morning she had received from the city a hundred dollar
bill, enclosed in an envelope, on which was simply written,
“Do with it as you see fit.” A deep flush mounted to
Delphine's brow as she quietly remarked, “You must
have some unknown friend in the city.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Clayton, “it was Josephine of
course; she is a dear good girl, and then she speaks about
it so modestly.”
“What does she say?” quickly asked Delphine, and
Mrs. Clayton replied, “I immediately wrote to her,
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[figure description] Page 355.[end figure description]
thanking her for the money, and saying I hoped she did not
rob herself. To-day I got her answer, in which she merely
alluded to the subject by saying that whatever she gave
me I must enjoy without thinking she was denying
herself.”
“She is worse than I supposed,” thought Delphine, but
she said nothing, while Mrs. Clayton continued: “It has
come in the right time, too, and is just what we need.”
Then she proceeded to tell Delphine how for years they
had tried to lay by enough to build a house, which would
cost about one thousand dollars. “We have already nine
hundred, and with this one hundred we shall venture to
commence.”
Here the conversation ceased, and Delphine, soon
after, returned home. Many were the consultations
which she afterwards held with Mrs. Clayton concerning
the construction of the new house, a plan of which she and
Jimmy at length proposed drawing. This took a deal of
time, and frequently kept them together for hours; but
at length the plan was completed, and Delphine returned
to the city, leaving Snowdon all a blank to Jimmy, who,
solitary and alone, pursued his studies.
In the spring the house was commenced, and early in
autumn there stood in the corner of Isaac Clayton's garden,
a small, handsome cottage, contrasting strangely with
the brown old gable-roof, which in a rage shook off a few
shingles and clapboards, as at Jimmy's suggestion a poor
widow, with three children to feed and nothing to feed
them with, was placed in it, rent free. One act of charity
made way for another, for the woman thus assisted took
from the poor house, where she had been for more than a
year, her blind old mother, who gladly exchanged the cold
charities of a pauper's home, for a seat by her daughter's
fireside.
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Alas! within the fairest flower is found the sharpest
thorn. Scarcely had three months passed since Isaac Clayton
and his wife had taken possession of their new home,
when over their quiet dwelling the dark pall of death was
unfurled, covering with its shadow the wife, who, for more
than thirty years, had walked faithfully and lovingly by
the side of her husband. Fever, which took the typhoid
form, settled upon her, and when the physician who attended
her was questioned concerning the probable result,
he shook his head mournfully to the group of six
young men, who, with filial affection, had gathered around
their mother's sick-bed.
And where all this time was Josephine? Why came
she not to soothe her mother's last great agony, and
administer consolation to those who, stern of heart and
strong of nerve, still in the hour of affliction bent like
a broken reed? Yes, where was she? This question
Mrs. Clayton often asked, for at the commencement of
her illness a letter had been dispatched, to which no answer
had been received, and at last Jimmy was sent to
bring her home. Judge Howland kindly offered his covered
sleigh and horses, and as Jimmy was driving from
the yard, Mabel, who knew that Delphine was in the city,
requested him if convenient to bring her cousin back with
him, saying that Kate Lawrence, a mutual friend and
school-mate of theirs, was then visiting her, and wished to
see Delphine.
Jimmy drove nearly all night, and at dawn of day the
spires and roofs of the city were discernible in the distance.
Impatiently he waited at a hotel, until an hour
when he thought Mr. Hubbell's family would be astir.
Then going to the house, he nervously rang the door bell.
His call was answered by a servant girl.
“Is Miss Clayton at home?” he asked.
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[figure description] Page 357.[end figure description]
“She is,” was the answer.
“I must see her, instantly,” said he.
The girl eyed him curiously, and replied, “What name
shall I give her? 'cause, unless it's something extraordinary,
she won't see you. It's her wedding day.”
Jimmy handed her his card, and then in the parlor sat
down to await her coming. In an upper room Josephine
was seated, together with Anna and Delphine, who unwillingly
had consented to be present at the wedding, and
had twice nearly broken her promise not to acquaint
M'Gregor with the nature of her he was taking to his bosom.
As Josephine glanced at the card which the servant
girl gave her, she exclaimed, “What can Jim want in the
city at this time?”
“Oh, is James Clayton here?” asked Delphine. “How
fortunate?”
Josephine's manner changed, as she said faintly, “Yes,
'tis fortunate, for now he can see me married. But I
wonder what he wants.”
“Go down and see,” answered Delphine, and Anna added,
“Or ask him up here to see Dell;” to which Josephine
rejoined, “Delphine can go down with me—I wish
she would.”
Acting on the impulse of the moment, Delphine accompanied
Josephine to the parlor. But the sight of Jimmy's
pale, sad face alarmed her, and she instantly asked,
“What is the matter? Is any one dead?”
He soon told all, and then repeated to Delphine Mabel's
request that she, too, should accompany him to Snowdon.
Without once thinking it possible that his sister could refuse,
he asked how soon she would be ready. Bursting into
tears, which arose more from the dilemma in which she was
placed than from actual grief, Josephine wrung her hands,
saying, “Oh, I cannot go, I cannot. To-night is my bridal
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night. The guests are all invited, and I cannot go. Mother
will not die. I know she will not. She must live, and
to-morrow I will surely come.”
Jimmy was confounded, but ere he had time to open
his mouth, another had stepped in to plead his cause.
“Josephine Clayton,” she said, more sternly than ever before
she had spoken to her—“I have long known that
you had no heart, but I did not suppose you so perfectly
callous as not to go when your dying mother bids you
come. I would leave all the bridegrooms in the world to
go to mine. Go, or I shall blush that I, too, am a
woman!”
Angrily Josephine turned upon her, saying, “Who are
you that presumes to question my conduct? I shall go, or
not, just as I choose, and on this occasion I choose not
to go.”
“Is that your decision?” asked Jimmy.
“It is, for how can I go?” she answered. “Mother
cannot expect it of me.”
“Then I will go without you,” said Delphine, who, besides
being pleased at again meeting Kate Lawrence,
whom she so much esteemed, was also glad of an excuse
not to see Josephine married.
Jimmy, though pleased at having her for a companion,
would still gladly have exchanged her for his sister;—for
how could he go home without her? how tell his dying
mother, when she asked for Josephine, that she had not
come? When they were alone, almost convulsively he
threw his arms around his sister's neck, beseeching her
to go; but she only gave him tear for tear, for she could
weep, while her invariable answer was, “I cannot, oh,
I cannot.”
At length his tears ceased, and Delphine reentered the
parlor in time to see him, with blanched face, quivering
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lips, and flashing eye, seize Josephine's arm, as he said,
“For more than two years you have not been at home.
Twice have I come for you. Once you spurned me, and
denied that I was your brother, and this, the second time,
when I come from mother's death-bed, you still refuse to
go. Far be it from me to curse you, for gladly would I
shield you from harm, but from this hour I feel that you
are cursed! You and yours! Blight will fall upon everything
connected with you, and remember, when next I
come, you will surely go!”
Long, long did these words haunt Josephine, and in the
years of bitterness which came, she had reason to remember
them but too well. Weary and sad was that ride to
Snowdon; but with Delphine for a companion, and her
encouraging words sounding in his ear, Jimmy grew
more strong and hopeful, though his mother's face was
constantly before him. Delphine knew that it would
take more time to leave her at her uncle's, so with kind
consideration she requested him to drive immediately to
his father's.
Supported in the arms of her eldest son, Mrs. Clayton
lay in a death-like stupor, from which she occasionally
roused to ask if Josephine had come. Upon the old stone
bridge there was again heard the sound of horses' feet,
and a smile of joy broke over her face, as some one whispered,
“They are coming.”
Instantly Isaac Clayton and his sons went forth to meet
the travelers, but the face they met was strange to them
all, save Uncle Isaac, who quickly asked for Josephine.
“She is to be married to-night, and deemed that a sufficient
excuse for not coming,” said Jimmy, stamping on
the ground, by way of adding emphasis to his words.
With a bitter groan Uncle Isaac staggered backward,
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and would have fallen, but for the timely assistance of
Frank. “Who, oh, who can tell her!” said he.
There was silence for an instant, when Delphine said,
“I will tell her, if you wish it.”
Then, with the stricken group, she entered the room,
where the first words which met her ear were, “Josephine
and Jimmy, I have blessed them all but you.
Now come to me, while there is time.”
Side by side they advanced to her bedside. With a
wild, searching look at Delphine, she said, “You are not
Josephine. Where is she? Shall I not see her?”
“In heaven, perhaps, you may,” answered Frank, “but
in this world you never will.”
Those who were present will long remember the shriek
which echoed through the room, as Mrs. Clayton exclaimed,
“She is not dead! Tell me, is Josephine dead?”
Delphine's soft white hand was placed on the brow already
wet with the moisture of death, and she gently
whispered, “It is her bridal night, and she could not
come.”
For a time Mrs. Clayton seemed paralyzed. Then
raising her head, she beckoned for Jimmy to come
near her. He did so, and taking his and Delphine's hand
in hers, she said, “May God in heaven be with and take
care of you both, and bless you, even as you have been a
blessing to me, my dear, my precious boy, my Jimmy.
And you, Delphine, my child, my children.” There was
a moment's pause, and then, as if the departing spirit had
summoned all its energies for one great effort, she let go
the hand of Jimmy and Delphine, clasped her own together,
and raising them high over her head, started up
erect, exclaiming, “Will God forgive my Josephine for
all she's made me suffer.” Then, with one long, low,
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despairing cry, she fell back upon the pillow, and naught was
left of Josephine Clayton's mother, save the tenement
which once enshrined the soul.
CHAPTER VIII. MRS. M'GREGOR.
The marriage ceremony was ended, and Josephine
Clayton, now Mrs. M'Gregor, was receiving the congratulations
of her friends. First among them came Anna,
but the gentleman who accompanied her was a stranger,
and Josephine was greatly surprised at hearing him introduced
as Mr. Granby, Delphine's brother. He had returned
from Europe sooner than he expected. On reaching
home, and learning that his sister was in the city, he
hastened thither, reaching Mr. Hubbell's just in time to
witness the ceremony. Thoughts of him, as we well
know, had occupied many of Josephine's waking dreams,
and now when she at last saw him, the knowledge that
she was not free to try upon him her powers of art, only
rendered him doubly attractive.
In personal appearance and manners he was as unlike
M'Gregor as was Josephine unlike Anna; and once during
the evening, as he and Josephine were standing side
by side near the center-table, they overheard a remark
not intended for their ears. It was, “How much better
the bride looks with Mr. Granby than she does with that
awkward M'Gregor!” To which the person addressed
replied, “Yes; and M'Gregor seems far better suited for
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plain Miss Hubbell! See! they are standing together
there by the window.”
Instantly George Granby's and Josephine's eyes met,
and then glanced across the room to the spot where
M'Gregor was making most desperate efforts to play the
agreeable to Anna Hubbell, who was smiling, and bowing,
and twirling her fan. Again their eyes met, and
this time a scarcely perceptible smile curled the corner
of Josephine's mouth, while George Granby, offering her
his arm, conducted her back to her husband, and taking
Anna, led her to the music-room, where some one was
playing the piano. But Josephine's eyes and thoughts
followed him.
As we well know, she had not married M'Gregor for
love, but because he was rich, and she knew that riches
would procure for her the position in society she so
greatly coveted. Insensibly she began to contrast her
husband with George Granby, and ere long she was blaming
the former for having hastened their marriage.
This was an uncommon mood, surely, for a young bride
to be in, but Josephine was an uncommon bride, and by
the time the last guest was gone, and they were alone,
she might safely be said to be in a fit of the sulks, whilst
poor M'Gregor, distressed beyond measure, strove to ascertain
the cause of her apparent melancholy. She saw
the necessity of making some explanation, so she told
him, for the first time, of her mother's illness, alleging
that as the cause of her sadness.
“Why did you not tell me before?” said M'Gregor.
“I would, of course, have postponed our marriage for a
few days.”
“Would to heaven I had!” said Josephine, with more
meaning in her words than M'Gregor gave her credit for.
The next morning, at an early hour, a gay livery stood
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before Mr. Hubbell's door, and M'Gregor, helping in his
young bride, and taking a seat beside her, was driven off
in the direction of Snowdon. It was a delightful morning,
and under almost any other circumstances Josephine
would have enjoyed the ride. Now, however, she chose
to find fault with all her husband's assiduous attentions
and politeness, saying, at last, ill-naturedly, “Do, M'Gregor,
stop your fussing. I am doing well enough, and will
let you know if I am uncomfortable.”
He complied with her request, as who would not, thinking
she had changed her tone and manner very soon.
About three o'clock they reached Snowdon, and by the
side of her pale, dead mother, the ice about Josephine's
heart gave way, and in the most extravagant terms she
bewailed her loss. Uncle Isaac, overjoyed at again beholding
his daughter, and deceived by her loud show of
grief, wound his arm about her, blessing her, and calling
her his precious child. The next day they buried Mrs.
Clayton, and the day following, Josephine returned to the
city, in spite of her father's entreaties that she would stay
a while longer with him. Promising to return in the
spring, she bade him good-by, and when again in the city,
she, to all appearance, soon forgot that death had been so
near her.
Frequently she met George Granby, but the influence
she had hoped to gain over him was partially prevented
by the presence of Delphine, who, together with Mabel
Howland and Kate Lawrence, had come to the city to
pass the winter, her father, at her earnest request, having
removed there for the season.
M'Gregor took a house opposite Mr. Hubbell's, and
commenced housekeeping in great style. Nothing could
exceed the elegance of his establishment; and Josephine,
who managed to keep the house filled with a set of
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fashionable young men, seemed at last perfectly happy,
though her husband was far from being so. True, he
had the best furnished house and the handsomest wife in
the city, but he found too late that beauty alone is not
the only requisite in a wife; and before the winter was
over he would have hailed the disfiguring small pox as a
blessing, had it succeeded in keeping from his house the
set of young men so frequently found there.
M'Gregor was not naturally jealous, but when, night
after night, on his return from business, he found his wife
so engrossed with company as to be wholly incapable of
paying him any attention, he grew uneasy, and once ventured
to remonstrate with her; but she merely laughed
him in the face, telling him that whatever he could say
would be of no avail — that he could n't expect one so
young and gay as she to settle down into the humdrum
Mrs. M'Gregor—that it would be time enough to do that
when she wore a wig or colored her hair.
George Granby at first only called occasionally, but on
such occasions Josephine did her best, acting the agreeable
hostess so admirably that, insensibly, George became
attracted toward her, and ere Delphine was aware of it, he
was a regular visitor at the house of M'Gregor, who never
objected to him; for, unlike the others who came there,
George treated him with the utmost deference, always
seeming pleased to see him present.
One evening the three were together, and conversing
about ill-assorted marriages. Josephine, as one who ought
to know, discoursed eloquently on the matter, and descanted
so feelingly on the wretchedness resulting from such
unions, that two large tears actually dropped from her eyes,
and fell upon her worsted work. M'Gregor would have
given anything to have known if his wife considered their
marriage an unfortunate one, but he wisely kept silent, and
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Josephine continued: “Whenever I see a person for whom
I feel an uncommon interest, about to unite himself with
one every way unsuited to him, my heart aches for him,
and I long to warn him of his danger.”
“Why not do so, then?” said George.
“Would my advice be kindly received?” asked Josephine,
at the same time giving him a searching look.
He understood her, but made no reply, and when the
conversation changed, somehow or other it turned upon
Anna, who, Josephine said, was a kind-hearted girl, but
it was such a pity she hadn't more character,—more life.
“But do you not think she has improved in the last respect?”
asked George.
Josephine faintly admitted that she had, but in the
next breath she spoke of her as possessing very little, if
any intellect, and lamented her utter incapacity to fill
the sphere for which she was intended. George Granby
needed not that she should tell him all this, for he feared
as much, though he had never once thought of breaking
his engagement with her. He had returned from Europe
intending to make her his wife, and hoping to find
her greatly improved. And she was improved, both in
personal appearance and manners. Constant intercourse
with Delphine had been of great benefit to her, and when
George came home, he was pleased to see how much she
had brightened up. Her health, too, had greatly improved,
and as she always dressed with the utmost taste,
she more than once had been called quite pretty, though
at all parties where Delphine, Kate Lawrence, Mabel,
and Mrs. M'Gregor were present, she was entirely overlooked,
or pointed out to strangers as the young lady
who was engaged to the polished Mr. Granby.
We have not yet described Kate Lawrence, and we
cannot do so better than to say, that to a style of beauty
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fully equal to Josephine, she added a proportionate kindheartedness
and intelligence. She was just the one whom
Delphine would have selected for her brother, had he not
been engaged to Anna Hubbell. Now, however, she
never harbored such a thought, and she assiduously strove
to assimilate Anna more to her brother's taste, always
speaking encouragingly to her, and kindly of her.
George had as yet never directly asked Delphine's
opinion of Anna, but the morning following his conversation
with Josephine, he sought an interview with his sister,
abruptly asking her if she sincerely thought that Anna
Hubbell would make him happy as his wife.
Delphine was taken by surprise. She had that morning
accidentally discovered that Kate Lawrence had a secret
liking for her brother, and she was just wishing it
might be—wishing it could be—when George startled her
with his question.
“Why, George,” said she, “what could have put that
idea into your head? Have Kate's bright eyes dimmed
the luster of poor Anna's charms?”
“No, no; I am not thinking of Kate,” said he, somewhat
impatiently; “but tell me, honestly, your opinion.”
And Delphine did tell him her opinion. She spoke of
Anna's gentleness and kindness of heart, admitting that
on many points she was rather weak and inefficient.
“But,” said she, “you are engaged to her, you have
promised to marry her, and my brother will surely keep
his word.” Here a loud call from Mabel that Delphine
should join her in the parlor, put an end to the conversation.
Meantime, Mr. M'Gregor was about to commit a sad
blunder. Thinking George to be his sincere friend, as
indeed he was, and knowing the great influence which he
possessed over Josephine, he resolved upon asking him to
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use that influence in dissuading her from receiving the
visits of so many gentlemen. Accordingly, the next time
George called, M'Gregor took the opportunity, when they
were for a few moments alone in the drawing-room. After
stammering awhile, he broached the subject, and with
much difficulty succeeded in making George understand
what he wanted.
“Silly old fool,” said Josephine, who in an adjoining
room had overheard every word. “He is meaner than I
thought him to be;” and then she listened, while George
respectfully declined any interference with M'Gregor's
family matters.
“Your wife has sufficient discretion,” said he, “to prevent
her doing anything wrong; besides, I should be
working against myself, for I come here as frequently as
any one.”
This was true; and as Josephine at that moment joined
them, M'Gregor said no more on the subject, but soon
after recollecting some business which he had down street,
he left them alone. For an hour they conversed on different
topics, and then Josephine, demurely folding her
hands, said, “When are you going to begin to lecture
me? I believe you have been requested to do so, have
you not?”
George blushed scarlet, and while he admitted the
fact, he disclaimed all intention of doing so; then, in the
tones of a deeply injured woman, Josephine detailed her
grievances, saying that each day she saw more and more
her mistake, and that though she did not exactly regret
her marriage, she yet many times wished she had not
been quite so hasty. George Granby was perfectly intoxicated
with her beauty, while the tones of her voice
and the glance of her eye thrilled every nerve. Snatching
her hand to his lips, he exclaimed, “Josephine,
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Josephine! why did you not wait a little longer?” Then, as
if regretting what he had said, he hastily rose, and saying
that he had another engagement, bade her good night,
and hurried away, almost cursing himself for the words
and manner which he had used toward a married woman.
The engagement of which he had spoken was with
Anna Hubbell, and going to her father's, he asked to see
her. She had long been expecting him, but was not prepared
for the vehemence with which he insisted upon her
naming an early day for their marriage.
“Why such haste?” asked Anna.
“Ask me no questions,” said he, “but if you would
save me from evil, become my wife, and that soon.”
In an instant Anna thought of Kate, and looking him
fully in the face, she said, “Answer me truthfully, George,
do you love Kate Lawrence?”
“No, no,” said he, “it would not be sinful to love her—
she is free; but that other one—”
Anna knew that he was in the habit of frequenting
M'Gregor's house, and suddenly a light flashed upon her
mind, and she said, “It cannot be Josephine, my friend
Josephine.”
“Your friend!” he answered, bitterly; “call her not
your friend, she does not deserve it. But you have
guessed right; I blindly put myself in the way of temptation,
seeing no danger, and believing there was none.”
The color receded from Anna's cheeks, and when
George looked at her for an answer, he was surprised at
the changed expression of her face. Something between
a sob and a groan came from her white lips, but he succeeded
in soothing her, and ere he left the house he had
gained her consent that the marriage should take place in
one week from that day, and that he might speak to her
father.
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Mr. Hubbell was n the library. On learning the nature
of George's errand, he gave vent to a few impatient
“umphs” and “pshaws,” but ended by giving his consent,
on condition that Anna remained with him a year
after her marriage.
Scarcely had the street door closed upon George, ere
Anna was told that her father wished to see her. “Well,
now, what's the mighty hurry?” were his first words, as
she entered his room, but anything further was prevented
by the sight of her unusually white face and swollen eyes.
“Why, Anna, child,” said he, “what's the matter?
Don't you love George? Don't you want to married?”
“Yes, yes, father,” said she, “but don't ask me anything
more, for I am very unhappy;” and bursting into
tears, she sat down on a stool at her father's feet, and
laying her face in his lap, sobbed until wholly exhausted,
and then fell asleep, while Mr. Hubbard gently stroked
her soft, brown hair, wondering what ailed her, and if his
Anna cried so a week before they were married.
The remembrance of his own darling wife caused two
tears to drop from his eyes and fall upon Anna's face.
This roused her, and rising up, she said, “Forget my
foolishness, father. To-morrow I shall be myself again.”
Then bidding him good-night, she repaired to her own
room. For several days she had been suffering with a
severe pain in the head, and when she awoke next morning,
it had increased so rapidly that she could scarcely
rise from her pillow without fainting. Her father, instantly
alarmed, sent for a physician, who expressed a
fear that her disease might terminate in brain fever. On
learning of her friend's illness, Delphine immediately hastened
to her. During the afternoon a servant girl entered
the sick-room, saying that Mrs. M'Gregor was in
the parlor, and wished to see Miss Hubbell.
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“I cannot see her,” said Anna; then calling Delphine
to her, she said, “Will you stay with me while I am
sick?”
“Certainly, if you wish it,” was the answer, and Anna
continued, “And, Dell, if I should get crazy, and Josephine
comes again, you won't let her in, will you?”
Delphine promised that she would not, wondering
what could have produced this change in Anna, in regard
to Josephine. Next day Anna was much worse, and, as
had been feared, she grew delirious. Constantly she
talked of Josephine, who, she said, “had stolen away the
only heart she ever coveted.” Delphine was greatly puzzled,
and when that night she for a few moments returned
home, she mentioned the circumstance to George,
who, with his usual frankness, immediately told her all.
Delphine heard him through, and then repeated to him
all which she knew concerning Josephine's character for
intrigue and deceit, blaming herself for not having warned
him before. The scales dropped from George's eyes;
Josephine's power over him was gone, and he saw her in
her real character. The next day, at his earnest request,
he was allowed to enter Anna's room; but she did not
know him, though her eyes, intensely bright with the fire
of delirium, glared wildly upon him as she motioned him
away. Approaching, and bending over her, he said,
“Anna, don't you know me? I am George, and next
Thursday will be our bridal day.”
For a moment she was silent, and then with a satisfied
smile she answered, “Yes, that's it; that 's what I 've
tried so hard to remember and couldn't.” Then as the
physician entered the room, she said to him, “Next
Thursday is to be my bridal day, and you will come, for
it will be a novel sight. Everybody will cry but George,
and I, the bride, will be in my coffin.”
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Poor Anna! Her words proved true, for the sunlight
of Wednesday morning fell upon her gray-haired, stricken
father, weeping over his dead, and the next day at the same
hour at which the wedding was to have taken place, the
black hearse stood before Mr. Hubbell's door. In it a narrow
coffin was placed, and then, followed by a long train of
carriages, it proceeded slowly toward the home of the
dead, while each note of the tolling bell fell like a crushing
weight on the heart of Mr. Hubbell, as by the side
of her, long since laid to rest, he buried his only child.
CHAPTER IX. CHANGES.
Ten years have passed away, since we followed poor
Anna Hubbell to her early grave. With the lapse of
time many changes have come to those who have kept
with us in the early chapters of this story. Jimmy Clayton,
long since admitted to the bar, is now a lawyer of
some celebrity in one of our western cities. For six
happy years he has called Delphine Granby his wife, and
in his luxurious home a little boy four years old watches
each night for his father's coming, while the year old
baby, Anna, crows out her welcome, and Delphine, beautiful
as ever, offers her still blooming cheek for her husband's
usual greeting, and then playfully assists the little
Anna in her attempts to reach her father's arms. Truly,
Jimmy's was a happy lot. Blest with rare talents, abundant
wealth, and influential friends, he was fast
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approaching that post of honor, which he has since filled, and of
which we will not speak, lest we be too personal.
But on his bright horizon one dark cloud heavily lowered.
He could not forget that Josephine, his once beautiful
sister Josephine, was now an object of reproach and
dark suspicion. Step by step she had gone on in her career
of folly, until M'Gregor, stung to madness by the
sense of wrong done him, turned from his home and sought
elsewhere a more agreeable resting place. At first he
frequented the more fashionable saloons, then the gaming
room, until at last it was rumored that more than once at
midnight he had been seen emerging from some low, underground
grocery, and with unsteady step wending his
way homeward, where as usual Josephine was engaged
with her visitors; and her half intoxicated husband, without
entering the parlor, would repair to his sleeping room,
and in heavy slumbers wear off ere morning the effect of
his night's debauch. In this way he became habitually
intemperate, ere Josephine dreamed of his danger.
One night she was entertaining a select few of her
friends. The wine, the song, and the joke flowed freely,
and the mirth of the company was at its height, when
the door bell rang furiously, and in a moment four men
entered the drawing-room, bringing with them Mr.
M'Gregor, in a state of perfect insensibility. Laying
him upon a sofa, they touched their hats respectfully to
the ladies and left.
With a shriek of horror and anger Josephine went off
into violent hysterics, wishing herself dead, and declaring
her intentions of taking immediate steps for becoming so,
unless some one interfered and freed her from the drunken
brute. One by one the friends departed, leaving her
alone with her husband, whose stupor had passed away
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and was succeeded by a fit of such silly, maudlin fondness,
that Josephine in disgust fled from his presence.
From this time matters rapidly grew worse. Still, as
long as Josephine was surrounded by the appliances of
wealth, her old admirers hovered around her; but when
everything was gone, when she and her husband were
houseless, homeless beggars, they left her, and she would
have been destitute, indeed, had it not been for her eldest
brother, Frank, who did for her what he could, remembering,
though, that in her palmy days of wealth she had
treated him and his with the utmost contempt. Her second
brother, John, was in one of the southern states.
The next one, Archie, was across the ocean. Jimmy, too,
was away at the west, and for the two between Archie
and Jimmy, graves had been dug in the frozen earth just
three years from the day of their mother's death. It was
well for Uncle Isaac that he, too, was sleeping by the side
of his wife, ere he heard the word dishonor coupled
with his daughter's name.
For a time after their downfall, M'Gregor seemed trying
to retrieve his character. He became sober, and labored
hard to support himself and wife, but alas! she
whose gentle words and winsome ways should have led
her erring husband back to virtue, spoke to him harshly,
coldly, continually upbraiding him for having brought her
into such poverty. At length, in a fit of desperation, he
left her, swearing that she might starve for aught more
he should do for her. For a time she supported herself
by sewing, but sickness came upon her, and then she was
needy indeed.
Once, in her hour of destitution, George Granby, now
the happy husband of Kate Lawrence, found her out, and
entering her cold, comfortless room, offered her sympathy
and aid; but with her olden pride she coldly rejected
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both, saying she was doing well enough, though even
then she had not a mouthful of food, nor the means of
buying it. George guessed as much, and when after his
departure she found upon the little pine table by the
window a golden eagle, she clutched it eagerly, and purchased
with it the first morsel she had eaten in twenty-four
hours.
In a snug, cozy parlor in the city of C—, are seated
our old friends, Jimmy Clayton and Delphine. The latter
is engaged upon a piece of needle-work, while the former
in brocade dressing gown and embroidered slippers, is
looking over an evening paper, occasionally reading a
paragraph aloud to his wife. At last throwing aside the paper
he said, “I have been thinking of Josephine all day.
It is a long time since I heard from her, and I greatly fear
she is not doing very well.”
“Do you believe her to be in actual want?” asked
Delphine.
“I don't know,” was the answer. “From her letters
one would not suppose so, but she is so proud and independent,
that you can hardly judge. Frank, too, has
left Snowdon, and there is now no one left to look after
her.”
There was a rap at the door, and a servant entered,
saying, “The evening mail is in, and I brought you this
from the post-office,” at the same time presenting a letter
to Mr. Clayton, who instantly recognized the hand
writing of Josephine. Nervously breaking the seal, he
hurriedly read the blurred and blotted page. Jimmy had
not wept since the day when the coffin lid closed upon
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his mother, but now his tears fell fast over his sister's letter.
It was as follows:
“Jimmy, dear Jimmy, my darling brother Jimmy.
Have you still any affection for me, your wretched sister,
who remembers well that once, proudly exultant in her
own good fortune, she denied you, and that more than
once she turned in scorn from the dear ones in the old
Snowdon home? You cursed me once, Jimmy, or rather
said that I was accursed. Do you remember it? It was
the same day that made me a wife and our blessed mother
an angel. They ring in my ears yet, those dreadful
words, and they have been carried out with a tenfold vengeance.
I am cursed, I and mine, but my punishment
seems greater than I can bear; and now, Jimmy, by the
memory of our mother, who died without one word of
love from me,—by the memory of our gray-haired father,—
and by our two brothers, whose graves I never saw,
and for whom I never shed a tear,—by the memory of
all these dead ones, come to me or I shall die.
“Patiently I worked on, until wasting sickness came,
and since then I have suffered all the poor can ever suffer.
Frank is gone; and from those I once knew in this city,
I dare not seek for aid. Perhaps you, too, have heard
that I was faithless to my husband, but of that sin God
knows that I am innocent. The firelight by which I am
writing this is going out, and I must stop. I know not
where M'Gregor is, but I do not blame him for leaving
me. And now Jimmy, won't you come, and quickly,
too? Oh, Jimmy, my brother Jimmy, come, come.”
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It was a chill, dreary night. Angry clouds darkened
the evening sky, and the cold December wind swept furiously
through the almost deserted streets, causing each
child of poverty to draw more closely to him his tattered
garment, which but poorly sheltered him from the blasts
of winter. In a cheerless room in the third story of a
crazy old building, a young woman was hovering over a
handful of coals, baking the thin corn-cake which was to
serve for both supper and breakfast. Everything within
the room denoted the extreme destitution of its occupant,
whose pale, pinched features told plainly that she
had drained the cup of poverty to its very dregs. As
she stooped to remove the corn-cake, large tears fell upon
the dying embers, and she murmured, “He will not come,
and I shall die alone.”
Upon the rickety stairway there was the sound of
footsteps, and the gruff voice of the woman, who occupied
the second floor, was heard saying, “Right ahead, first
door you come to. Yes, that's the one; now be careful,
and not fall through the broken stair;” and in another
moment Jimmy Clayton stood within the room, which for
many months had been his sister's only home.
There was a long, low cry of mingled shame and joy,
and then Josephine was fainting in her brother's arms.
From the old broken pitcher upon the table Jimmy took
some water, and bathed her face and neck until she recovered.
Then was she obliged to reassure him of her identity,
ere he could believe that in the wreck before him, he
beheld his once beautiful sister Josephine.
He took immediate measures to have her removed to a
more comfortable room, and then with both his hands
tightly clasped in hers, she told him her sad history since
the day of her husband's desertion. She did not blame
M'Gregor for leaving her, but said that were he only
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restored to her again, she would, if possible, atone for the
past; for, said she, “until he left me, I did not know that
I loved him.”
Jimmy heard her story, and then for a time was silent.
On his way to the city he had stopped at Snowdon, at the
home where his father and mother had died, and which
now belonged to him. He had intended to place Josephine
in it, but the time for which it was rented would
not expire until the following May. At first he thought
to take his sister to his western home, but this he knew
would be pleasant neither to her nor his wife. The old
“gable-roof” was still standing, and as there seemed no
alternative, he ordered it to be decently fitted up as a
temporary asylum for his sister. When at last he spoke,
he told her all this, and then with a peculiar look, he said,
“Will you go?”
“Gladly, oh, most gladly,” said she. “There, rather
than elsewhere.”
The lumbering stage coach had long since given place
to the iron horse, which accomplished the distance to
Snowdon in little more than an hour. Accordingly, the
evening following the incidents just narrated, Jimmy
Clayton and his sister took the night train for Snowdon.
The cars had but just rolled out from the depot, when a
tall, thick set man, with his face completely enveloped in
his overcoat and cap, entered and took a seat directly in
front of our friends. For a moment his eye rested upon
Josephine, causing her involuntarily to start forward, but
instantly resuming her seat, she soon forgot the stranger,
in anxiously watching for the first sight of Snowdon. It
was soon reached, and in ten minutes time the door of the
old gable-roof swung open, and Delphine, whom Jimmy
had left at Judge Howland's, appeared to welcome the
travelers. On the hearth of the old fashioned sitting-room,
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a cheerful fire was blazing. Before it stood the neatly
spread tea-table, and scattered about the room were various
things, which Delphine had procured for Josephine's
comfort.
Sinking into the first chair, Josephine burst into a fit of
weeping, saying, “I did not expect this; I do not deserve
it.” Then growing calm, she turned to Jimmy and said,
“Do you know that eleven years ago to-night our angel
mother died, and eleven years ago this morning, you uttered
the prophetic words, “when next I come, you will
surely go?”
She would have added more, but the outside door slowly
opened, and the stranger of the cars stood before them,
saying, “Eleven years ago to-night, I took to my bosom
a beautiful bride, and I thought I was supremely blessed.
Since then, we have both suffered much, but it only makes
our reünion on this, the anniversary of our bridal night,
more happy.”
Drawing from his head the old slouched cap, the features
of Hugh M'Gregor stood revealed to his astonished
listeners. With a wild shriek Josephine threw herself
into his arms, while he kissed her forehead and lips, saying,
“Josephine, my poor, dear Josephine. We shall be
happy together now.”
After a time he briefly related the story of his wanderings,
saying, that immediately after separating from his
wife he resolved upon an entire reformation, and the better
to do this, he determined to leave the city, so fraught
with temptation and painful reminiscences. Going west,
he finally located in a small country village, engaging himself
in the capacity of a teacher, which situation he had
ever since retained.
“I never forgot you, Josephine,” said he, “though at
first my heart was full of bitterness toward you; but with
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improved health came a more healthful tone of mind, and
in the past I saw much for which to blame myself. At
last, my desire to hear something from you was so great,
that I visited the city where your brother resides. I went
to his house, but on the threshold my step was arrested
by the sound of your name. James was speaking of you.
Soon a servant entered, bringing your letter. I listened
while he read it aloud, and wept bitterly at the recital of
your sufferings. I knew he would come to you, and determined
to follow him, though I knew not whether my
presence would be welcome or not. I was at the door of
that desolate room when you met. I was listening when
you spoke kindly, affectionately of me. I heard of your
proposed removal to Snowdon, and made my plans accordingly.
Now here I am, and it is at Josephine's option
whether I go away or stay.”
He stayed, and faithfully kept was the marriage vow
that night renewed in the “Gable-roofed House at
Snowdon.”
THE END.
