Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale
by Ida Glenwood · English · Gutenberg #35765 · 663,471 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Lily Pearl and The Mistress of Rosedale
Author: Ida Glenwood
Editor: Joseph Kirkland
Release date: April 4, 2011 [eBook #35765]
Most recently updated: January 7, 2021
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/35765
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1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. A list spelling corrections, word variations and other information
regarding the original text are located at the end of this e-text.
* * * * *
[Illustration: IDA GLENWOOD, (The Blind Bard of Michigan.)]
LILY PEARL
AND
THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE
BY
IDA GLENWOOD,
"The Blind Bard of Michigan."
AUTHOR OF
"THE FATAL SECRET," "KATE WYMANS AND THE
FORGER'S DAUGHTER," "BLACK
FRANCE," ETC.
EDITED BY
MAJOR JOSEPH KIRKLAND.
CHICAGO:
DIBBLE PUBLISHING CO.
1892.
COPYRIGHT 1892
BY DIBBLE PUBLISHING CO.
CHICAGO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
PREFACE.
It matters but little to the average reader whether a book be wholly
historical or purely imaginary if it be of sufficient interest to hold
the attention in a pleasurable excitement to its close.
There are those however, who will be glad to know that the following
work was wrought out of historical facts gleaned from a large parcel of
letters written by a son while a soldier in the army of the rebellion,
to his widowed mother, then in Springfield, Mass.
Graphic were his descriptions of scenes and incidents coming to his
personal knowledge during that memorable march from "Atlanta to the
sea."
These I have woven into a web of fiction mingling their lights and
shadows, blending them as best I could amid denser shades, hoping that
peradventure their coming to you, gentle reader, may prove as great a
pleasure in the perusing as the author has enjoyed in the weaving.
IDA GLENWOOD.
Fenton, Mich.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
My editing of this most interesting story has been little more than
proof-correction. On reading the manuscript in advance of the
type-setting I soon found it safer to leave the author's style to take
care of itself, sure that it will strike the public, as it struck me,
with renewed respect and admiration for one who, sightless, can excel so
many of us having all the senses.
It is touching to observe how the blind narrator dwells on outward
things,--color, light and shade, sunset skies, human features and
expressions,--which must come to her only in imagination. She seems to
dwell with peculiar intensity on a world of beauty which we others,
sated by abundance, pass by unrecorded if not unnoticed.
Sightless she is not, for in her the mind's eye is of a brilliancy that
seems to make our mere physical vision useless by comparison. Better the
soul's sight without eyes, than the eyesight without soul.
JOSEPH KIRKLAND.
PUBLISHERS' ANNOUNCEMENT.
We would be pleased to have the reading public patronize "LILY PEARL AND
THE MISTRESS OF ROSEDALE," because of the benefit to the author, "The
Blind Bard of Michigan," and for the pleasure it will give the following
gentlemen and firms, who have freely and generously given their time to
the production of the work: Major Joseph Kirkland, editor; G. M. D.
Libby, printer; L. Braunhold, artist; A. Zeese & Co., electrotypers, and
Donohue & Henneberry, binders. But the best reason for buying will be
found in the charming story itself.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTERS.
I MIDNIGHT AT "CLIFF HOUSE," 17
II THE LITTLE MARINER ALONE UPON THE OCEAN, 29
III THE WAIF AFTER THE STORM, 39
IV RECEPTION NIGHT AT THE NEW HOME, 50
V DEATH IN THE LITTLE COTTAGE, 61
VI "CRAZY DIMIS" AND THE TWILIGHT SCENE, 71
VII CHANGES IN THE COTTAGE HOME, 81
VIII OUT INTO THE WORLD, 91
IX AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL, 99
X THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE, 108
XI ROSEDALE, 117
XII HEART'S SECRETS REVEALED, AND UNREVEALED, 127
XIII THE MOTHER'S CURSE, 137
XIV THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER, 147
XV SCENES UPON THE PLANTATION, 157
XVI THE BIRTHNIGHT ENTERTAINMENT, 167
XVII THE THRILLING REVELATION, 177
XVIII THE LITTLE PARTY AT THE WASHBURN'S, 189
XIX DEATH OF "UNCLE BOB," 201
XX THE ABDUCTION, 211
XXI BREAKING OF HOME TIES, 225
XXII LEADING HER ON, 237
XXIII A DAY IN THE HOSPITAL, 247
XXIV THE DARK, DARK WAVE, 259
XXV THE RECOGNITION, 271
XXVI THE "PHANTOM" REMOVED, 283
XXVII NEW RESOLVES AND NEW ADVENTURES, 295
XXVIII FLIGHT OF THE SOUTHERN SPY, 307
XXIX A NIGHT UPON THE BILLOWS, 319
XXX THE SHADOWS AS THEY FLY, 331
XXXI CHANGING CLOUDS, 343
XXXII THE DARKNESS THICKENS, 355
XXXIII LIGHT THROUGH THE RIFTED CLOUD, 367
XXXIV A STORM ABOUT THE WIDOW'S COTTAGE, 375
XXXV A PROUD SPIRIT BROKEN, 387
XXXVI UNFOLDINGS AND REVEALINGS, 397
XXXVII THE GOLDEN CLASP RELINKED, 407
XXXVIII CHANGES AND REVOLUTIONS, 417
XXXIX THE HAZY MISTS ARE LIFTING, 427
XL AUNT VINA IN THE NEW HOME, 441
XLI "GOOD BYE," 450
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Ida Glenwood, the Blind Bard of Michigan, Midnight, 17
The Cliffs, 28
By the Sea, 38
"Look at her, Shipmates," 42
At the New Home, 60
The Church Yard, 70
The Brook, 90
"Oh, Mrs. Gaylord, I am so Lonely!" 104
The Inn at Kirkham, 136
Park Scene, 145
"Give Me That Paper!" 146
Nest-building, 200
The Death of Uncle Bob, 207
The Haystacks, 210
"She Placed the Cup to His Lips," 253
The Capitol in War Times, 258
Scene in the Dismal Swamp, 294
Camp Fires, 306
"Did You Say Her Husband?" 312
The Night Train, 318
The Billows, 329
Lily Pearl, 342
Mrs. St. Clair, 354
Scene on the Schuylkill, 365
Lillian, 373
Plantation Scene, 385
Arrival at Kirkham, 406
Meeting of Lily Pearl and Her Mother, 408
Aunt Vina, 426
[Illustration: MIDNIGHT.]
CHAPTER I.
MIDNIGHT AT "CLIFF HOUSE."
It was a dismal night out upon the ocean where the huge billows tossed
high their foaming crests, or dashed with maddening fury upon the rocky
shore as if unwilling longer to submit to the powers that shut them in;
while ever and anon the deep-mouthed thunder answered back through the
darkness "thus far shalt thou go, and no farther."
Then ran the echoes along the shore and up the ragged cliff on whose
summit one feeble ray of light struggled through the narrow crevice of a
curtained window out into the midnight gloom. The howling winds made sad
music through the long corridors and curious wrought lattice work that
partially enclosed it; slamming the heavy iron gate that had broken
loose from its fastenings and kept swaying to and fro upon its rusty
hinges, wakening by its unusual noise the huge watch dog in his kennel,
who growled menacingly at being disturbed at such a late hour. The rain
beat furiously against the windows and ran in rapid cascades down the
steep declivity into the sea, falling on the sandy shore that extended
along the beach at the foot of the cliff.
It was October, and the cottage on the summit was usually deserted
before this time, for the invalid who had resided there during five
successive seasons could not well endure the autumn breezes when the
frost-king had chilled them.
To-night, however, a tall, richly-dressed lady sat alone in the spacious
parlor, her black gown lying in heavy folds on the white matting that
covered the floor, her head drooping wearily upon her hand as her elbow
rested on the table where the wasting candle flickered low in the
socket; but she heeded it not. Now and then she would raise her head
with a sudden start and look intently at the door opposite and then sink
back again into the same posture as before.
There was sadness upon her face, such as awakens the deepest sympathy of
a human heart; but in the keen, glistening eye there was a deeper,
sterner look that would send a sister's tenderest love back to its
secret chamber, chilled and trembling!
There are hours made so big with actions and resolves that _years_ full
of circumstances and results are made to hang their heavy weights upon
them. Such an one was now passing, bearing away on its dark wings the
fearful impress made by a silent finger, yet in characters that in after
years will reflect back upon the soul, filling it with horror and
dismay! A loud peal of thunder echoed through the apartment and then
rolled away in the distance, leaving behind the mingled voices of the
winds and waves, with the fast falling rain on the roof above.
The door suddenly opened and a servant girl stealthily entered with a
newly lighted candle, placed it on the table exchanging it for the one
almost spent, and then as stealthily retired.
The lady did not seem to notice the intruder, as she did not enter the
door where her expectant eyes had so often turned with a wild, weird
look, and she remained as motionless as before.
Two o'clock. The little silvery bell on the mantel proclaimed the hour,
and the tall bent figure at the table gave a sudden start, as though a
new pang had penetrated her sensitive brain.
A few moments after, the door toward which her eyes had so often
wandered slowly opened and a little girl scarcely ten years of age,
timidly entered and approached the lady.
"Mother would like to come in," she said, with a faltering voice, while
her pale blue eyes were fixed on the matting at her feet.
"Tell her to come," was the laconic reply, and the child hurried away
with a much quicker step than that with which she had entered.
Immediately a small, nervous little woman appeared, with a cold, rigid,
sallow face, small gray eyes and sandy hair, bearing in her arms a
bundle of soft white flannel, which she pressed mechanically to her
well-rounded bust, and without any salutation seated herself upon a
wicker chair, and with the utmost _sang froid_ commenced unrolling the
white flannel she had laid upon her lap.
"It's a wee darling," she said, after a lengthy pause, during which time
she had exposed a little red face and a pair of diminutive fists all
ready to begin the fierce battles of life, and towards which the lady
did not deign to look.
"But it's a pretty thing," she continued. "Look at it, ma'am; it's as
fat and plump as a baby three weeks old, and sleeps as quietly as though
it had not been born in such a terrible storm. The pretty dear!"
"How is she?" coolly interrupted the stately lady. "Your patient above
stairs, I mean; is she comfortable?"
"Of course she is--they always are, ma'am." And she chuckled a low,
unmusical laugh which accorded well with the mingled murmurings of the
expiring storm without.
"Tell me more of her," demanded the lady imperiously. "Will she recover
soon?"
"I think so ma'am; but she will need a long rest. She is sleeping now as
gentle as a kitten. But she was pert enough, I can tell you, when she
knew she had a little girl. She actually laughed and said she was '_so_
glad,' and was going to call it Lily Pearl. 'That will be _our_ pet
names joined; he called me Lily and I called him Pearl. Lily-Pearl,
_that_ shall be her name.' And I thought I would name her as she wished,
it will do no harm. It will be a queer thing to fix into Blunt; but we
shall get used to it."
The lady frowned, but there might have been seen a moisture in her large
dark eyes, as though the heart had sent up a little maternal love from
its hidden depths, yet her stern cold words checked them, and they did
not reveal it.
"You remember our contract?" she interrogated.
"O yes, ma'am; I am to have two hundred dollars upon the spot, and a
hundred and fifty every year until the child is five years old; and then
we are to have a new bargain, and if I keep the girl I shall expect you
to do something handsome, for you know she will be of no earthly use to
_me_ before that time, nor after for that matter, if she is no better
than my Maria." Here the woman paused, for the infant on her lap threw
up its tiny fists and uttered a feeble cry.
"Poor thing. It's cold, and will want something to eat pretty soon," she
continued as she folded the soft flannel again around it.
"I see you have not forgotten the _reward_; your duties, I hope, are
equally clear to your memory."
"O yes, ma'am."
"Well then, I do not want _her_ to see the child again! It will be so
much easier for her to forget that she ever had one. It is no doubt a
lawful child as she asserts, as far as her age can make it so--but as I
told you she is only fifteen and a few years will cover up this night
forever! As soon as it is light, take it to your home and care for it as
you will; that is, be a mother to it and _I_ will take care of the rest.
But remember one thing! I demand you to forget that she _ever_ mentioned
the silly name of 'Lily Pearl!' Call her anything else you please; let
me see,--Phebe, yes--that will do! _Phebe Blunt!_ Now leave her with me
for a few moments and return to the chamber, she may need you by this
time. But stay a moment"; and the lady reached out her hands to receive
the little bundle.
"Can you not keep her dozy--_sleepy_, I mean for a short time until she
gains a little strength? She will need it you know in order to bear the
news, she will be obliged to hear! Are you sufficiently skilled in your
profession to do this without injury?"
"To be sure I am ma'am! It's what she needs, and if we don't there will
be no pacifying her about her baby."
"You can tell her"; replied the lady, "If she is troublesome, that she
is not able to see it at present; she must wait awhile! Now go!"
The woman obeyed and with a cat-like tread left the room a very
significant smile lighting her hard features; and the little babe who
had just entered upon a life of storms and tempests lay still and
motionless upon the rich dress of the beautiful lady who should have
wound her jeweled arms about the tiny form and vowed to protect the
helpless one in whose veins her own blood was coursing; from the terrors
of the threatening blasts. But pride and an unnatural ambition had taken
the place of the love that had once ruled her heart and better nature,
and the good God had give her knelt in humble subjugation at their feet.
She uncovered the little features before her and gazed long and fixedly
upon them, while her thoughts ran back over the short path which had
wound so pleasantly along through the last fifteen years since her own
beautiful Lillian lay upon her lap, the idol of him who had fallen by
the flowery way over which her memory was wandering; and for a time it
stopped by a grassy mound at which she often knelt in the twilight hour
under the shadows of the fir tree, and a tear fell upon the innocent
upturned face; and a low wail penetrated her ear. For a moment she
pressed the tiny form to her heaving bosom and her heart whispered, "She
shall not want--_I_ will care for her--my Lillian's babe!" She took the
little hand in hers and pressed it to her lips, and then with an impulse
unpremeditated she unfastened its dress and exposed the pretty pink
shoulders to view. She started, and a faint cry broke from her lips
which awoke the slumbering echoes in the room. Upon either shoulder a
little purple spot was plainly visible, the same over which her maternal
pride had lamented sixteen years before! There they were--the very same!
With a tremor of deep regret she hastily covered them again and wrapped
the soft warm blankets about it tenderly as she laid it down once more
upon her lap. A few moments later the timid Maria entered to take the
babe to the kitchen, and with an assumed hauteur the lady yielded up her
charge and it was carried from the room. The fury of the storm had
passed, though there were clouds still lurking in the sky and the dismal
Atlantic kept up its fitful roar; but the winds had ceased and the rain
drops fell leisurely from the eaves down upon the gravel walks, and the
old house-dog slept quietly in his kennel by the gate. But greater than
the storm without had been, was the tumult of emotion that was still
raging in the bosom of her who now walked with unsteady step up and down
the spacious parlor with folded hands and care-worn expression on her
handsome face, which many long years with all their changes and
bereavements could not have placed there. "It must be!" she exclaimed at
last, and slowly leaving the room she ascended to a distant chamber
where her daughter,--her beautiful Lillian, lay pale and restless on her
bed in an unnatural sleep.
The mother drew aside the thick folds of the curtains which shut her in
and gazed fixedly upon her waxen features. How wan they looked! The rose
tints were all faded from her cheeks and lips; and face seemed as cold
and white as though just chiseled from the unfeeling marble by the
cunning hand of art. By and by the white lips moved and a few audible
words escaped them.
"She is dreaming" the mother thought, and bent her stately head to
listen. "It is ours--my Pearl--our sweet Lily--_ours_, I am
dying--dying--Pearl--Lily!" The curtains fell again around the uneasy
sleeper and with a wildly throbbing heart the wretched mother sank down
upon a chair and buried her face in her hands, while the angel of
maternal pity came and rolled away the stone from the sealed fountain of
her tears, and she wept!
Three days with their gloomy nights dragged laggardly and wearily by,
and the tall lady in black bent tenderly over the pale languid form on
the bed, bathing the white brow and striving to arouse her from the long
stupor by endearing words and soft caresses.
"Mother," she said at last; "bring my babe to me will you? I want to see
her sweet face before I die! Love her Mother, and call her your own
precious Lillian,--give her _my_ room and tell her when old enough to
understand that there the life began which withered and died when its
beautiful blossom budded into life! Will you Mother?"
"You are not going to die my daughter! You are very weak now, it is
true, but you will soon be stronger. Wait until then, for it would be
disastrous for you to see her now. The excitement might overcome you.
Wait dear--your mother knows best. Close your eyes and rest. Just as
soon as it is proper you shall see your babe." And she kissed the pale
brow with hot quivering lips, and turned away to gain new strength from
the vile spirit within for the conflict through which it was to lead
her.
A week more and the cry of the mother's heart for its first born would
not be hushed.
"My daughter," whispered the weeping mother, "believe me, my poor,
_poor_ child! _This_ is the bitterest hour of my life, for the words
your entreaties compel me to utter will fall sadly on your heart my poor
Lillian! But it must be done! Bear them my daughter with all the
fortitude of which you are capable!" The lips that were already polluted
with the falsehoods they were about to utter pressed the white ashy ones
of her child as the demon of remorse was introduced into the chamber of
her soul which was to poison ever after the fountain of her existence,
and people her midnight vigils with spectral fears.
"It is all for the best! Think so my darling and do not grieve that God
has transplanted your beautiful Lily to a more genial clime before its
purity was soiled by the contaminations of this tainted life. It is safe
now; and by and by it shall be given back to you, and with this
assurance do not murmur!" Her words fell unheeded upon ears that were
sealed from all earthly sounds; but _they were heard_! The dark, _dark_
falsehood was registered in letters of fire where no mortal hand could
ever blot them out. How true that "upon the wicked he shall rain snares,
fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest, and this shall be the
portion of their cup."
"I have killed her! I have killed her!" almost shrieked the miserable
mother, and with a trembling hand she frantically rang the bell. Little
Maria immediately appeared, and with as much composure as she could
command the lady asked if Mother was still in the house.
"No ma'am, she's just gone," was the reply.
"Then _run_ for her! Hasten, O hasten!" pleaded the miserable woman, and
the child obeyed. Rapidly did she chafe the cold hands of the insensible
Lillian, but no "comforter" came to the sin-stained heart to drive away
its despair. Many moments passed and she was alone with the motionless
form of her for whom she would sixteen years before have laid down her
life. What agonizing thoughts burned themselves into her brain as she
watched the feebly returning breath and saw with a bound of joy the soft
tint steal again into the closed lips. At last the eyes were slowly
opened and fixed themselves on the blanched face bending over her. Then
came a whisper so feeble that the stately head bent low to listen. "I am
better now. Kiss me Mother. Let me lay my head on your bosom, and sing
to me as you used to do! Hark! how the ocean roars! Listen--it is
calling--calling--my Lily, my noble Pearl. O my husband, when may he
come to me? We are not children! Am I not a mother? Is he not the father
of my child?"
"Do _not_, Lillian, you are very ill! Have you forgotten what your
father told you? He is where your babe has gone you know; but his last
words were: 'My daughter; trust your mother always, and be guided by her
superior wisdom.' I am older than you and know what is best for one in
your present position; and if you will wait and be quiet all things will
come out right at last."
"Yes, Mother. Let us go home where the odor of the orange-blossoms will
bring me back to life, and Old Auntie can tell me all about it! _Her_
little ones were all taken, and I never knew how her poor heart ached.
I think I dreamed Mother, for I saw my pretty Lily carried away from me
and I could not reach it although I stretched out my arms to possess
her! O Mother! Mother! _Is my child dead_?" and the large eyes looked
with a steady gaze into the blanched face of her only parent, who was
chafing with a caressing motion the little white hand that was lying so
lifelessly in her own. In vain did the pallid lips strive to answer but
no word came to them.
"_Is_ my _child dead_?" she asked again without removing her eyes.
"_Dead_, my daughter," at last fell from her icy lips, and another
sin-stain was stamped on her already polluted soul that an ocean of
tears could never wash away.
"_Dead_" she murmured, and the beautiful eyes again closed while the
wretched mother sat by and trembled.
In the darkness that enveloped her how gladly would the soul have looked
up for one little ray of light and comfort, but the pall of sin, the
thick darkness of an abiding 'remorse' had settled down over every
glimmering hope and not a gladsome beam of light could penetrate its
dense folds. Poor soul! More terrible than the storm that had swept over
the sea, when the words of the dark falsehood were registered where no
mortal hand could blot them out, were the commotions of the tempest
tossed soul as the mother watched on and the moments went wearily by!
"Dead!" again whispered the pale lips. "My Lily, my Pearl! Gone--all,
all are gone! Take me home Mother--the ocean roars--the dark waves are
rolling over your poor Lillian;--let us go home," and the beautiful
head turned wearily upon its pillow and the wretched watcher moaned in
her anguish; for she was _alone_!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
THE LITTLE MARINER ALONE UPON THE OCEAN.
Six years! How short each succeeding round appears when one has almost
reached the mountain's top-most peak of life's upward course and knows
that soon his feet must be going rapidly down upon the other side, where
his journey ends! But almost interminable their length to the weary
little foot-sore traveler who wanders alone at its base ever looking
upward to the green spots on the hillside with restless longings. Poor
little Phebe! The first words that fell upon her unappreciative ear were
mingled with the requiem notes over departed summer, and it had come for
the sixth time since that eventful night with its soft breezes and sweet
melodies--with its beautiful flowers and singing birds, and filled the
heart of the lonely child full of the glorious sunshine. Now she could
sit upon the beach and watch the white sails that floated away over the
waters where the golden beams kept dancing and skipping about upon the
waves, and listen to the deep, low murmurings of the sea that seemed to
sing to her mysterious songs, until the angry passions within would grow
calm and fairy forms would lead her away to that far-off land where in
dreams she often wandered. Poor little Phebe! She _was_ an unfortunate
child "always in the way, never good for anything, doing nothing she
ought but always the very thing she should _not_." Never in favor, at
least with her foster-mother, who almost daily declared "that the paltry
hundred and fifty dollars didn't begin to pay for the trouble and
expense of the disagreeable child," and yet it would have been no very
easy task to compute the cost of the scanty meal which twice each day
fell to the little outcast child to whom the thriving, ambitious Mrs.
Blunt gave a shelter. Sure it was that a goodly sum was stored away in
the old oak chest which would never have been there had the "troublesome
child" not found her way into the fisherman's cottage.
True, there was nothing that was winning about the diminutive figure
with the sunburnt face. An unusual growth of thick dark-brown hair was
kept conveniently "cropped," in defiance of science or taste, close to
her well-rounded head, and a pair of large hazel eyes seemed to be
always penetrating the secret depths of hearts where no welcome greeted
them. Her dress too did not set off her little dumpy figure to the best
advantage, although it was often of the finest material, being generally
the cast-off garments of the "misses" of the Cliff House, which were
duly sent every season by a servant who was commanded to "inquire after
the little girl" and always returned with a favorable report. These the
child wore regardless of size or fitness, and as she wandered alone upon
the beach with her sad face and thoughtful eyes turned upward gazing
into the deep blue sky or away in the dreamy distance one might have
been pardoned for calling the queer little figure gnome, or witch, as
the fancy struck him.
"Where under the sun has that little imp gone to now!" exclaimed Mrs.
Blunt entering the room one day where her daughter Maria, a pale, sickly
girl of sixteen, was sitting, as she deposited her basket of vegetables
upon the bare floor in no very amiable mood.
"I do declare! She's the most provoking creature I ever saw! I told her
to have all the knives scoured before I came in from the garden and
positively there has only _two_ of them been touched and _they_ are
lying out there in the sun growing blacker than ever and she is nowhere
to be seen! I don't know _what_ to do with her! It don't do a bit of
good to whip her--not a bit--and I don't know as anything but _killing_
would effect her at all!" She smiled feebly as this last observation
fell from her lips, while the daughter laughed outright.
"No it don't!" said the girl, quickly seeing that the fury of the storm
had for the time passed and the mother was about to lift the basket and
pass into the kitchen; "it don't do a bit of good to whip her! It only
makes her mad and more willful! Suppose we try coaxing for a time just
to see how it will work. I think there is good in her but cross words
will never bring it out!"
"There is one thing about it! If we don't hear from that woman before a
great while she may go and find some one to coax her besides _me_; I
don't like her well enough to begin!"
"I presume she has not come back from Europe yet," said the daughter
musingly; then she spoke more audibly. "I wouldn't send her off yet,
Mother; remember we have almost enough for Father to buy a fishing smack
of his own, then we shall be quite rich," and the blue eyes of the pale
face lighted up with the anticipation.
"_Humph!_ Well she has got to do better than she has if she wants to
stay here!" and with this satisfactory conclusion she disappeared with
her basket through the narrow door into the kitchen. Maria quietly laid
aside her knitting and went out where upon a wooden bench standing on
one side of the humble cottage lay the neglected knives which she in a
very short time polished and put away in the narrow wicker basket on the
dresser, then taking her neatly starched sun bonnet from its nail in the
entry and placing it on her head passed out through the garden down a
narrow footpath across the common to the sea shore. She was in quest of
the truant Phebe, and well did she know where to find her. Walking along
a few rods by the sandy beach she came suddenly to the foot of a steep
ascent whose side facing the sea was almost entirely composed of
precipitous rocks unevenly thrown together, while here and there a
stunted pine or a yellow clump of moss struggled for existence. Here
too, half way down the rugged descent Phebe lay concealed in her cozy
retreat, sheltered from the summer sun by the rocks above her, with an
uninterrupted view of the boundless ocean spread out to her delighted
gaze. In a few moments Maria was sitting by her side. She did not seem
at all surprised at the presence of her visitor, but raising herself
remarked quietly: "Maria how _can_ those birds stand on the water out
there? _I_ can't do it. I wish _I_ could lie down on that wave that
keeps rocking--rocking and singing--why can't I Maria? Hark! Do they
talk to you--the waves? Did they ever say 'come here? come here?' They
do to _me_."
"You _are_ a queer child!" replied Maria impatiently, forgetting for the
time the grand purpose of her visit. "But why don't you try to be a good
girl and do as Mother wants to have you? This morning she told you to
scour the knives which you know is your work every day, and _why_ didn't
you stay and do it and not make her so cross with you?"
"'Cause--" interrupted the child; "I don't like to scour knives and I
ain't a-going to!"
"You don't like to be _whipped_ either," answered Maria; "but you know
Mother will do it if you don't mind her!"
"_I_ don't much care," said the child, shrugging her shoulders, as she
settled herself down with calm composure.
"_I_ don't care _much_. I'll be big some day, and then she won't _dare_!
O Maria, see that wave dash up on the rock, and break all to pieces.
Somehow--"
"Never mind the waves; I want to talk to you. Do you love me, Phebe?"
"Love you? What is _that_? I don't love nothing," and then starting up
and rubbing both her dirty hands across her brown forehead, an act she
always performed when some new thought flashed up from within, she
exclaimed: "O, Maria! last night, when Father and Mother thought I was
asleep in my trundle-bed, I heard her say that somebody had paid lots of
money for me or something; and then she laughed and said I didn't look
much like a 'lily,' and guessed that if my mother could see me now,
she'd be glad 'cause my name wasn't 'Lily-Pearl.' O Maria! _What_ did
she mean? '_Lily-Pearl!_' I keep saying it all the time. That's my name;
and O it's such a pretty one. Lily-Pearl! Pearls come up out of the
ocean. The teacher said so the other day, and I guess _that's_ what
makes _me_ love the sea so much. _Who_ is my mother, Maria? And what
makes you call me Phebe Blunt, when it's Lily-Pearl? I don't like it,
and I won't have such an ugly name. Tell me, who _is_ my mother?" Maria
was a long time silent, while a deeper pallor overspread her face. But
the large, wondering eyes of her interrogator were fixed intently upon
it. How _could_ she answer? It was a secret that never was to be
mentioned; yet well did she know that Phebe would never rest with this
sly peep into the exciting mystery, and it would be as well to satisfy
her now as any time, and so she said mildly:
"I don't know, Phebe, who your mother is; but she was beautiful, and
without doubt rich, and, I think, would have been very glad to have kept
you, had it not been for her proud, wicked mother, who did not think it
best, and so you came to live with us. Now, wasn't Mother kind to take
care of you when a little baby, and shouldn't _you_ try to be good, and
do as she tells you, to pay her for her trouble?"
Phebe was silent for a moment, while her thoughtful eyes were
penetrating the deep blue far away. "No," she said at last. "She might
have thrown me back into the sea, where the pearls grow. But I _knew she
wasn't my_ mother," she continued musingly, as she pointed her finger in
the direction of the cottage.
"What made you think so?" asked Maria.
"Because, if she was, she would kiss me like Lutie Grant's mother does.
She always says, 'good morning, daughter,' and kisses her when she goes
to school. I wonder what good it does, though," she continued, musingly.
"_I_ was never kissed in my life."
"That is _one_ way to love," answered Maria with a smile. "Now will you
be a good little girl if _I_ kiss you and love you?"
"Maybe so," was the laconic reply.
Maria put her arms around the child's neck and drew her towards her,
imprinting upon her lips a hearty kiss.
"Pshaw! _That's_ nothing!" she replied, disdainfully. "Is that love,
Maria?"
"No; it was a kiss. If you loved me, you wouldn't say _pshaw!_ but kiss
me as I did you. Now come, let us go to the house. Remember, I have told
you a secret about your mother and this will make us friends. You must
not tell any one, or even speak about the beautiful lady for Mother
would be very angry because I talked about it; and don't forget that you
promised to be just as good as you can be, which I am sure will be all
right, and by and by we shall all love you. Come!"
"I shan't go! She will want me to wash potatoes, or something, and I
_won't_ do it."
"But you promised that you would be a good girl if I would love you, and
this is not keeping your promise."
"O _you_ don't love me; you only want me to go home and scour knives,
and I don't like to scour knives, and I _won't_, either."
"But Mother will whip you when you do come home, and I don't like to see
you whipped; why won't you come now?"
Phebe looked at her companion with surprise. She had never heard her
talk so gently and feelingly before. For a moment she was almost tempted
to yield. Maria saw her advantage and once more urged the willful child
to accompany her. Phebe's eyes turned again towards the sea.
"O Maria, Maria! see that big wave chase the other clear up on the
sand!"
And the little dumpy form swayed to and fro while her large eyes
glistened. Maria turned hopelessly away. Her experiment had failed. "The
child is past redemption," she thought, as she walked moodily home.
Phebe sat a long time gazing out from her rocky "eyrie" by the sea,
thinking over and over again the little story to which she had just
listened, and wondering how the beautiful lady looked; and if she really
was her mother, and if, instead of being brought by an angel, as Lutie
Grant said her little sister was, she had been picked up from off the
ocean by somebody she had never seen, and so they called her
"Lily-Pearl!" By and by a sudden impulse took possession of her.
"I _must_ go and see where that sail boat was going that had just
rounded the point yonder!" It had disappeared from sight, but _where_
had it gone? With rapid steps she ascended the rocks, and ran up the
hill with her utmost speed and then descended into a broad, thick
woodland, where for a time she forgot her haste, listening to the music
of the birds and gathering wild flowers that were growing all about her.
Still she wandered on. It was past noonday when she emerged from the
woods and espied just before her, on a slight elevation, a beautiful
house--the house where she was born! There was nothing here, however, to
reveal the interesting fact to the little wanderer, and so she traveled
on, stopping only for a moment to peep through the heavy iron gate at
two pretty children who were playing in the yard, skipping and jumping
along the gravel walk; and then, as if fearful of being discovered,
started off as fast as possible, leaping down the edge of the cliff
until she reached the sandy beach far below. Here she stopped. The
pretty sail boat that had allured her hither was nowhere to be seen, and
weary and heated, she threw herself upon the ground and watched the
rising tide as it came dashing upon the beach. It had risen rapidly,
when suddenly she became aware that a dark object was floating near her
on the water. It was a small row boat often used by the inmates of Cliff
House, but which the tide had washed from its moorings, and was now with
its bow still clinging to the sandy beach, swaying impatiently at her
feet, restless as her own adventurous spirit. With a scream of delight
she sprang into the frail bark, and soon found herself floating steadily
and rapidly away from the shore. Now, for the first time, she was out
upon the waves where she had so longed to be, amid the sparkling gems
which the sunbeams were scattering all around her, while the huge
billows just beyond beckoned her to follow. A small oar lay by her feet,
and with this she caressed the ripples and drew, now and then from the
unknown depths, the dark-green seaweed that floated by.
Thus she was borne away, unmindful of the danger into which her wild
spirit was leading her, and heeding not the sun descending into the
dark, gloomy clouds that hung about his ocean bed, for she was happy
now; alone upon the boundless sea, her life had become the fairy dream
in which she had so often revelled while closeted in her rocky retreat,
from which she was floating forever.
She was no more a child, but a wave--a billow--one of those which had
sung to her so often while she sat and watched them, and her low, sweet
voice joined in the anthem of the sea as if it said--
"Rock me, Mother, gently rock me,
Sing the songs I love so well."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
THE WAIF AFTER THE STORM.
Phebe listened to the rolling music with an ecstasy never before
experienced in her wildest dreams, and as the winds moaned on the
distant shore and the sea-birds shrieked their sad accompaniment to the
chorus of her song, she fell asleep hungry and weary.
Little slumberer, who shall guide thy frail bark, unseen by mortal eye,
over the trackless waves? Who shall check the rising storm and temper
the fury of the winds to the poor lone lamb? An eye is upon thee and
thou cans't not perish! A sure hand is at the helm, and the frail bark
shall ride gloriously over the angry deep, and a sweet voice near thee
shall whisper "peace, be still!"
It was quite dark when the rolling thunder awoke the sleeper, and with a
scream of horror she sprang to her feet to find her alluring dreams, her
fancied bliss, all dispelled as the realities of danger burst upon her.
She called loudly, but the sea gave only a dismal echo to her ears; she
shouted but the deep-toned thunders alone sent back a reply. Where now
was the brightness that had so dazzled her? The sunbeams had gathered up
all their sparkling gems and with them had disappeared! The music of the
waves had died away, the little song which a few hours before had
bubbled up in her joyous heart was hushed, and all was darkness and
gloom. Ah, little mariner, life is full of just such changes! Sunshine
and tempest--noonday and darkness; all intermingling their lights and
shades! Thy first great lesson is a sad one, but it will never leave
thee. Better so than that it should be only half learned.
Phebe lay in the bottom of the boat famished with hunger, wet with the
drenching rain, pale and sick, when the captain of a gallant yacht which
had "laid to" during the storm, espied from its deck a little speck far
away to leeward, apparently lying still upon the waters.
"I say, Thornton," he remarked to a shipmate near him; "isn't that a
boat off yonder? Here--take the glass! I can hardly make it out. But
it's something, whether there's any life about it or not."
"Yes, it's a boat clear enough," replied his companion eyeing it
intently; "but I imagine it's one that has been washed from some ship
during the storm for there is nothing alive about it as I can see."
"I think you are right so we'll leave it to its fate."
In a few moments the beautiful craft had disappeared and the little boat
with its helpless occupant was left unheeded except by Him who permits
not a sparrow to fall to the ground without his notice. Ah--thy fate was
near thee, little one but the unseen hand has removed it and it is well!
Through the waves the yacht ploughed its way, for the breakers were
rushing back from the shore and all on board save one returned to their
berths for the rest that had been deprived them by the howling winds
and the tossing of the staunch hull which the day before had seemed so
sure and safe in its strength, but which the billows bore high on their
foaming crests, then dashed as a helpless thing into the dark furrows
the storm-king had ploughed out from the angry deep as he marched
onward! O the horrors of a night spent amid a "storm at sea!"
Seated in one of the state rooms was a tall, queenly woman, robed in a
rich _deshabille_ of gray silk, with her elbow resting on the window
sill, her hand supporting the head that bent wearily upon it, while her
dark eyes gazed through the heavy plate glass out upon the black waters
that kept dashing and surging against the victorious yacht proudly
crushing the intruding waves that presumed to cross its pathway.
"Mother," said a winning voice near, "why will you not lie down awhile
before breakfast? The danger is all over, and listen! Hear how calmly
the seamen walk the deck! I presume everyone has concluded to make up
for the fearful lying awake and will not be astir for two hours at
least. Come Mother!"
"No--I can rest here! We shall be out another night, and it may be
_two_," was the desponding reply.
"You used to sing 'life on the ocean wave' Mother, and I remember your
saying once that you had no sympathy with Headley who declared that 'to
sing that song by a good warm fire and being in it were two very
different experiences,' for _you_ rather enjoyed the one you passed
through during your first voyage."
"Yes, child, I remember! I was not as old then as now"; and she might
have added "and not as _guilty_ then as now"; but they passed on.
It was nearly noon before a coasting vessel came in sight, and spying
the little boat that was floating amid the waves the kind-hearted
captain ordered three sturdy tars to go and capture it.
"Not so great a job as we've had sometimes," remarked one playfully.
"Pull away boys, see--there is something in the bottom! Steady,--" and
as they came alongside the speaker sprang into the boat.
"Och--but she's dead!" exclaimed Mike, as he raised the insensible child
in his arms. "She is! Look at her, shipmates," he continued bringing her
forward as he would a coil of rope.
"There isn't a bit of color in her face under the dirt; poor wee thing!"
and he passed her over to a man with a very brown, weather-beaten face,
who laid her tenderly on some blankets and began chafing her hands.
"She is _alive_, boys," he said a few minutes after; "here Mike--pass me
that little bottle I saw you put in your pocket this morning, it looked
to me like very good brandy," he continued with a laugh, at the same
time reaching out for it.
"Sorra a bit of _brandy_!"
"Never mind, pass it over, whatever it is. For once I'll not expose you
for the good it may do now." The small bottle was passed and the kind
man placed it to the lips of the insensible girl.
"Drink it, child," he said in tones as low and soft as a woman's; "it
will make you well."
[Illustration: "LOOK AT HER, SHIPMATES!"]
She did not hear him; yet she did swallow the few drops that were turned
into her mouth, and the good man's predictions proved correct, for in a
few moments she opened her eyes, but turned her head, hid her face in
the blankets on which she was lying.
"She is afraid of our hard old faces," remarked the sailor who was
bending over her; "but we will soon be where there will be more
agreeable ones. Give way, boys, they are waiting for us," and rising, he
left the "wee" stranger to herself.
"I should think she would have got used to ugly faces if she has been
where there's a glass," remarked the third of the party, rather cruelly,
but laughing and good-natured. They reached the schooner, and the
wearied child was handed on board, amid many exclamations and
intermingling remarks of sympathy and astonishment.
There were two women down in the small cabin; one the wife of Mike, who,
in accordance with the kindness natural to her people, took the little
outcast mariner under her especial care, and, with feminine instincts,
provided for her wants.
The next few days the diminutive figure of Phebe Blunt sat upon the
dark, dingy chest beneath the small narrow window in the cabin, looking
out upon the blue, blue sea her beating heart so much loved, as it
gathered up the jewels of emerald, and gold, and crystal pearls which
the sunbeams scattered upon the wavelets' snowy crests, and with them
her fancy built a palace of its own, to which in after years memory
would often return and bear away some precious stones to adorn her sober
real life.
"Ye're a strange child," said Cathreen, one day, after watching her for
a long time, as she sat coiled up on the heavy chest, her large eyes
peering from the window at the dark waters over which they were
sailing. "What makes ye look so much at the sea? I'd rather see the land
any time; and I wouldn't care a farthing if I never put my eyes on a bit
of water again as long as I live." The child turned her beaming face
towards the speaker with an expression of wonder and incredulity playing
over it.
"How _can_ it?" she asked at last, as her little brown hands brushed
back the mass of dark hair from her broad forehead.
"Can what?" and the two women laughed heartily.
"Walk on the water. I couldn't, and I don't believe _He_ could," and the
bewildered gaze was turned again out of the narrow window.
"_Who_, child? Are you beside yourself?"
"_He!_ Lutie Grant's mother said He walked on the great sea, but _I_
don't believe it. How could He? _I_ can't."
"Ye don't know what ye're talking about."
"Yes she does," interrupted the other. "It's Christ, the Bible tells
about."
"And he used to love little girls, and took 'em up and kissed 'em; she
said so; but, pshaw! that's nothing! Maria kissed _me_ once, but
'twasn't much. I'd like to walk on the water, though," and again the
eyes sought the far-off, and dropping her head upon her arms sat
motionless as before.
"She's a puzzle," remarked Cathreen as she went about her work.
"I'd just like to know who she is and where she came from," remarked her
companion, musingly. "I can almost believe that she _did_ come up out of
the sea, as she says, and that her name _is_ 'Lily-Pearl'," and she
laughed.
There was a third one who had been listening to the conversation from
the narrow stairway that led to the deck, and entering at this moment,
said, gently:
"I think I know some one who would enjoy working out this 'puzzle'," and
he laid his hand tenderly on the bushy head of the little girl.
"Would you like to go home with me and live?" he asked. "You will find
one there who can tell you all about _Him_ who walked on the sea and
loved little children, and I imagine he would love _you_, too, for there
is more in this little heart and brain than is generally given to one so
young and ignorant," he continued, as he turned to the wondering women
who were listening.
"Ye're not going to take her home with ye _sure_, Mr. Evans? Mike said
that _he_ guessed we'd take her; she's no trouble and likes the water."
Phebe shrugged her shoulders and looked toward her friend who said,
pleasantly:
"I think I will take her home with me; and perhaps we will hear from her
mother or somebody who will want her, some day," and patting the rounded
cheek, left the cabin and ascended to the deck while Phebe went on with
her musings, and the two women commented on her future and the "strange
conduct of the mate." Yet, all unseen a hand was tenderly leading the
little stray lamb back to its fold through "pastures green" and "by the
still waters," where the thorns and the briars were scattered along its
banks, and where the poor feet would many times get torn, and the heart
grow faint; but her way is onward, for the Father leadeth her. Somebody
has said that "God will make the blind bird's nest," and Faber once
declared that "there is hardly _ever_ a complete silence in our souls.
God is whispering to us well nigh continually. Whenever the sounds of
the world die out, then we hear these whisperings of God." Was He not
doing this to our little mariner? "They talk to me," she would say, and
in her innocence it was the waves that talked--it was the billows that
called, but the Father's tender voice was whispering, and his loving
care was continually over her.
"The wind is coming up again pretty brisk, Mate, and I guess we shall
have another rough night," said the captain, as he met the other on his
rounds just as the darkness began to settle down about the vessel.
"If it will keep in the northeast, all right; we will reach the harbor
by to-morrow," and he walked thoughtfully on.
This prediction was true. In less than a half hour the gale was tossing
the billows high about the ship, and the sky was dark and lead-colored.
Phebe would not leave the little window, although the white foam dashed
against the small panes and the gloom without was impenetrable.
"Come away, child," commanded one of the women, sharply, "what makes you
keep sitting there, when you can't see the nose on your face?"
"I don't want to see it," was the quick reply; "I want to see them roll
and tumble over each other. _He_ couldn't walk on it now?" she queried,
turning to the mate who had entered.
"But He could do something more wonderful than that," he said, coming to
her and laying his hand on her head.
The wondering eyes that were looking into the face of the speaker grew
larger and brighter and she said--
"I don't believe it!"
"The Bible says so, Phebe, and Willie believes it. Hark--how the wind
blows and the waves roar! but _He_ could say to them all, 'Peace, be
_still_!' and they would mind him."
"Stop blowing?"
"Yes, and the sea stop rolling."
She looked at the smiling face for a moment and then with a shrug of the
shoulders turned her eyes again out of the window. The ship was plunging
madly in the darkness, and the occupants in the little cabin were
obliged to hold tightly on to the railing around it to prevent being
dashed together, but Phebe kept her seat on the old weather-beaten
chest, clinging to the window for power to hold her position, yet her
face did not lose its quiet expression for a moment.
"Well, little girl, I see you are not afraid," remarked the mate,
pleasantly, as he turned to go above. "I didn't know but the storm would
make you think of your ride all alone, and would want some of my help
again."
"It don't rain and thunder now," she remarked quietly. "It was awful;
the waves talked, and something said, 'Poor little Phebe! the pearls are
looking at you, and will take you down in their beautiful home, where
you belong, if the storm don't stop'--but it did, and I went to sleep.
Where are the pearls? It's cold down there, and what made them throw me
on the waves?" Thus Phebe mused while the winds died away and the waves
were calmed, and as the ship settled down into quiet on the dark sea,
she turned to the frightened inmates of the cabin with the expression:
"Guess He _did_," and getting off her seat crept softly to her bed.
In the elegant yacht seen in the morning, another pair of dark eyes was
gazing through the window of the stateroom into the rapidly gathering
storm. Evidently it had changed its course, and instead of making its
way southward along the coast, it was now laboring to gain the open sea.
The eyes were wild in their burning excitement, as the blackness became
more intense and the billows roared as they dashed against the brave
craft. There was no gathering of the "precious gems" into the soul of
the stately lady, for her memory was full of a sad record, from which
she could not shut her thoughts. She turned almost fiercely towards the
calm figure reclining on the sofa opposite, exclaiming: "Lillian, you
anger me. What are you lying there for, when such a terrible storm is
out upon the sea? Do you not know that we are not going towards Mobile
at all, but are sailing as rapidly as the winds can drive us out
into--nobody knows where?"
"Eternity, perhaps," was the quiet response.
"Are you trying to torture me, child?"
"This should not do it, Mother, for your pallid, pinched face tells me
that I have given you no new thought. We are in danger, as you know, and
many have come where we are never to a shore again."
Mrs. Belmont was silent. Her wild gaze turned once more out of the
window, and the daughter mused on.
At last. "If Pearl only knew, I could lie down under a friendly billow
peacefully--yes, gladly."
"Will you persist, Lillian?"
"He is my husband and the father of my child."
A moment's silence.
"How terrible! That peal was directly over us!"
The stately head dropped upon the white arm extended across the heavy
bar of iron to which she was clinging, while the shouts and heavy
hurried feet made a dismal accompaniment to the confusion all about her.
Lillian spoke.
"Mother, with death in the air and on the sea, tell me, _where_ is my
child?"
"In heaven, I hope," and for once she spoke truly.
"If not there, do you know where she is?"
"She is there. I will not endure your suspicions, Lillian! Never ask me
concerning your child again."
The stately lady attempted to rise, but fell back insensible upon the
chair. When consciousness was restored the fury of the storm was passed,
and Mrs. Belmont, weak and dispirited, moaned upon her bed until the
sea-sick passengers landed safely at their destination.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
RECEPTION NIGHT AT THE NEW HOME.
Not many miles from Boston there stands a small, white cottage a few
rods back from the main road, with a cool, shady lane leading to the
lawn by which it is surrounded. Around this stands many wide-spreading
maples, which cast their shadows over roses and honeysuckles when the
sun is hottest, while the summer breezes linger among the branches to
fan the noonday loungers, who, weary with their morning's toil in the
field, seek rest beneath their shades. In the rear a garden stretches
its way down to a little brook, which winds itself hither and thither
through the tall meadow grass, singing softly to the gay lilies which
hang their heads over its banks. The brook passes on through the narrow
strip of pines that had carpeted the path on its margin with soft
matting until it reaches a fair and picturesque lake, lying snugly
nestled in the bright green basin the surrounding hills have made for
it. Trees stand upon the water's edge and dip their long, pendant
branches playfully into the blue beneath them, and white waxen lilies
with their pure petals deck the bosom of the sleeping beauty, and rise
and fall mechanically as the breezes pass over the surface.
It was to this home, surrounded by green fields and nature's beauties
that George Evans, the kind-hearted sailor, brought the unpromising
prize whom he found floating upon the waters.
It was a beautiful, calm summer evening when the two stepped from the
cars at the small village of Kirkham and began their pleasant walk of
some two miles to their journey's end. The road lay over a varied
country of hills and dales, on which the setting sun was throwing an
additional charm of golden hues, lighting up the tree tops and gilding
the quiet lake and brooklet with tints of changing glories, crowning the
distant mountain with a chaplet of beauty, as the retiring king sank
lower and lower in his chamber of purple and crimson behind a western
cloud. The sailor was walking slowly with bowed head, holding the little
brown hand of his _protegee_ tightly in his own, unheeding the departing
splendors of the dying day, for his thoughts were busy and his face
denoted a "mind ill at ease."
"Look--look!" exclaimed his little companion, pulling away her small
hand from the weather-beaten one that was so gently leading her.
"_That_ is 'most as pretty as the sea: But it don't talk to me," she
continued, after a moment's pause. He _did_ look as she requested, but
not where her finger pointed, for his attention suddenly became riveted
upon the little upturned face beside him.
"If they could only see her _now_," he thought; "what eyes! But it will
be all gone when we get there, and nothing but the old look of
impishness will remain." A smile passed over his bronzed features as he
continued to gaze at her who was hurrying on before to gather some
flowers that grew by the road-side, and well might he be pardoned for
any remark he might be tempted to make, for a more unlovely little image
could not well be imagined. Her dress, which had originally been of very
fine material, had lost the most of its beauty before coming to her, and
what little might have been left disappeared during the night she lay
asleep in the bottom of the dirty fishing boat with the rain beating
upon her. To be sure it had been washed and mended by the kind-hearted
Cathreen on board the "Bay State," but even this process had failed to
add new charms to it, for there were many more colors (added by the
several patches) than were at first intended to be there. This outer
article of apparel, with an apology for one other garment, was the sole
covering of the little dumpy figure; and her hair, which was very thick
and much longer than it was generally permitted to grow, hung in
confusion about her sunburnt face.
They had now ascended a slight eminence which overlooked the valley, and
before them was distinctly visible the blue lake with its green border,
and a long line of struggling sunbeams lingering upon its bosom, while
to the right, in the midst of the evening shadows, stood the neat white
cottage with its numerous adornings; still nearer and plainly
discernable in the broad light was a smooth white marble slab cold and
chilling as the form which had for many years rested beneath it. This
stone so motionless and still told the passer-by that "Henry Wood," the
former owner and proprietor of the pleasant home and those extensive
fields had long ago ceased from his labors, and the soil which his hands
had so productively tilled was now another's, yet they were not his who
was now so thoughtfully looking over them. When _he_, twelve years ago,
stood in the place of the buried husband, by the side of the widowed
wife, the reservation had been made. The farm with all its
accompaniments should belong to his future companion and _her_ heirs, of
whom her only daughter stood first in the rank of all succeeding
claimants.
One child had been born to them, a poor crippled boy of ten years,
towards whom the father's heart always turned with all its fullness of
paternal love.
"Come here, Phebe," said the sailor kindly to the busy little girl, who
had her hands full of gay flowers and leaves, as he seated himself on a
stone by the roadside. "Come here and see that house yonder! Don't you
think you would like to live there? See that lake, it isn't quite as
large as the one I found you on, but there is a boat much prettier, very
much, than the one you took your lonely ride in. Tell me, don't you
think you would like such a home as that?" he continued, seeing she was
gazing thoughtfully on the scene.
"I'd like to go _there_," she answered at last, pointing to the green
hills that surrounded the lake.
"But who would feed and take care of you? Besides, why would you not
like to live in that pretty house? There are flowers all around it, and
smooth paths through the garden down to the meadow brook, and beside it
you can walk to the lake where the bright little row-boat is fastened to
the oak tree. Willie thinks it is very nice! We always go there together
when I am at home, and while we are sailing I tell him all about my
voyage, what I saw and heard, and what I hope he will see and hear some
day."
"Won't they make me scour knives and wash potatoes?" asked the child,
eagerly. "I don't like to do it, and I _won't_!" she exclaimed
emphatically. "Mother used to whip me because I wouldn't do it; but I
would run away down to the shore and talk to the waves. Do the waves
talk over there?" she said, pointing to the lake, around which the
nightly shadows were densely gathering.
"If they do, they will tell you it is _very_ naughty not to do what
those who are so kind ask you to do. Mothers have to do many things that
are not pleasant, and every mother's girl ought to try to please her.
Don't you think so?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and drawing her hand
across her forehead, replied quickly--
"Well, I don't like to scour knives, and I hain't got no mother."
"But I want Willie's mother to be yours, and I think she will be very
kind to you, if you are good and try to please her."
A shadow passed over his face, and he was silent for a long time. When
he once more aroused himself to actual life it had grown quite dark and
the child was nowhere to be seen. He called, but she did not answer.
Hurrying down the hill he called again; but the echoes were his only
reply. For a moment a sense of relief came over him. He had pondered
much how he should introduce his little charge to the family circle in
her most attractive light, in order to avoid opposition as much as
possible. But she was gone, and he could now go to his home with the
expectation of a joyful greeting from all, unless it be save one. Then
his great heart spoke.
No, he could not leave her to wander off alone to perish; he _must_ find
her. Besides, Willie needed a companion. Poor lonely boy, he was denied
the sports of other children, and was left alone with his thoughts and
books so much that he was growing morbid and silent. This was pitiful in
one so young, and it may be that he needed just such a play-fellow as
this to draw him away from himself; and he would find her.
Hurrying on he did not stop until he had reached his own door, and to
his great surprise he beheld Phebe in the little sitting room surrounded
by the family circle, who seemed to be enjoying their strange guest to
the utmost. He stepped quickly back into the deeper shadows and
listened. They were evidently trying to find out something of her
history, for Willie asked:
"But where did you come from? You can tell us _that_."
"I came from way down in the ocean, where the pearls grow, that is what
my beautiful mother called me Lily-Pearl for."
A hearty laugh succeeded this answer, while Fanny remarked, ironically:
"I should imagine she had sprung out of _some_ dark cavern; but there is
not much of the appearance of the pearl family about her."
"What made you come _here_?" inquired Mrs. Evans, kindly; "did any one
send you?"
"I thought I'd just come and see if you'd make me scour knives and wash
potatoes; 'cause, if you would, I don't want to live here. I don't like
to do it and I _won't_!"
"What a strange child," remarked Willie. "I wish I could keep her; I
should like her _so_ much."
"Like me? Does _that_ mean _love_? Would you kiss me and say, 'Good-bye,
dear,' as Lutie Grant's mother does? Maria kissed me once, but _that_
was nothing," and she shrugged her shoulders with an impatient gesture
of contempt.
"Kiss her," exclaimed Fanny; "I would as soon kiss one of our pigs."
Mr. Evans from the shadow saw the flash in the large dark eyes, as they
turned upon the speaker, and thought it time to make his appearance
known. As he entered the door Phebe ran to him with outstretched arms,
and exclamations of pleasure, while the eager hands of the little lame
boy were reached out towards him, and soon clasped in the strong, loving
embrace of the happy father. The wife came forward for her share of
joyful greetings, but the daughter kept her seat by the table where she
was sewing, extending her hand only as the father approached, but he
bowed his head and kissed her brow with a fondness that was not
returned.
"Well, Phebe, what made you run away from me?" he asked, turning to the
little girl who was still clinging to him, and laying his hand tenderly
on her bushy head. "You wanted to introduce yourself, did you? Didn't
you know I was very much frightened? I thought, perhaps you had run away
to the woods where you seemed so anxious to go and live."
"And where you picked her up, I should imagine," remarked Fanny, without
raising her eyes from her work.
"Not quite so bad as that, is it, Phebe? But we will talk about that by
and by," and unfolding a large bundle which he had brought with him he
handed Willie some books which made his blue eyes sparkle; then a parcel
to his wife and another to the daughter, while a third he held in his
hand.
"Here are some dresses for Phebe, which I think will serve to win for
herself a trifle more affection than she can expect to get in her
present outfit," he said with a smile.
Unfolding some bright calicoes, he called the little girl to him.
"Won't you look pretty when you have these new dresses on?" he asked
kindly.
"Lutie Grant never wore prettier clothes than these will be!"
This had the desired effect. How her eyes sparkled and danced with the
anticipation.
"Why, isn't she handsome, Father? Where _did_ you find her?"
He gave a communicating look to his son and said;
"Tell Willie where I found you, will you?"
"'Way out on the ocean," she said, evasively.
"What were you doing there?" Willie again asked.
"I wanted to go out on the waves and hear what they said. I couldn't
tell what they said when I was on the rocks."
"You said you came from way down in the sea where the pearls grew."
"And so I _did_, but not now. A beautiful lady picked me up. Will _you_
call me Lily-Pearl?" she asked, coming close to Willie and taking his
soft, white hand in hers. "I'll be good, then."
"And do what Willie's mother asks you to do?" interrupted Mr. Evans; but
there was no answer.
"Let me call you Lily _Evans_; that's my name, you know, and if you are
to be my sister, we must love each other, and I shall want to have you
like my name, too. Shall I?" Phebe shrugged her shoulders, and the old
unpleasant look came back to her face.
"Then you don't want me for your brother? I thought you were going to
love me, and we would be happy together."
Phebe stole more closely to his side, and looking up into the pale face
whispered, timidly, "Will you kiss me, Willie?"
"To be sure I will, and _love_ you, too--I know I shall!" and the boy
kissed heartily the little upturned face just as Fanny's sneering laugh
reached her. The flash of indignation darted to her dark eyes, which her
kind protector had seen there more than once, and well did he understand
the foe that was lurking beneath.
"I think little Phebe must be tired; can you find a place for her to
sleep, Mother?" he asked soothingly, at the same time drawing her
towards him. "Good night, my little girl; I hope you will have pleasant
dreams, and to-morrow we will talk about the new dresses." He kissed her
fondly as he spoke, and the face beamed with joy as she left the room.
There was a long family consultation that night after the child had been
shown to her bed, and for the first time in her whole life made to
repeat the simple prayer: "Now I lay me down to sleep," which she did
reluctantly, and with many shrugs. But the quiet, earnest voice of Mrs.
Evans subdued her, and she at last submitted with a very good grace. It
was finally decided before the family separated for the night, that the
new-comer should for a time, at least, become an inmate of the home
circle, and through Willie's solicitations she should be considered his
exclusive property. He would be her teacher, guiding all her studies,
filling her little untutored mind with the knowledge he had gained, as
well as endeavoring to correct her faults; while she in return would be
his companion, drawing him in his carriage and amusing him generally. It
was with a light heart that the poor lame boy lay down to sleep that
night. Bright visions of coming happiness flitted through his mind, and
succeeded in driving away his usually quiet slumbers.
The next morning he arose early and soon after "Lily," as he persisted
at the time in calling her, notwithstanding Fanny's sarcastic
protestations, appeared in a neat chintz frock and pink apron which had
not been taken out from their hiding place since the baby boy had grown
too large for their use. Her hair was smoothly parted back from the
forehead and her face was beaming and animated. She bounded quickly to
Willie's side as she entered the room where breakfast was waiting, and
inquired eagerly: "Do I look pretty?" "To be sure you do; just as pretty
as any other girl!"
"I want to tell you something," she leaned over to whisper as she was
being lifted to her seat by the side of her future companion; "I love
_you_, but I _hate_ Fanny!" "You must not hate any one," replied Willie.
"Fanny is my sister and you are going to be, so we must _all_ love each
other." "I can't," and the little dumpy figure raised itself to its
fullest dimensions as she looked into the face of Fanny, who was coming
into the room with the coffee. "I _won't_ love _her_, but I love _you_,"
and she clasped the little white hand fervently in her own.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
DEATH IN THE LITTLE COTTAGE.
Phebe was not mistaken in her heart's emotions, as the years proved. She
_did_ love Willie with all of the ardor of her young affections. His
wish was her law; his reproofs her severest chastisements. But the
stern, cold Fanny found no place in her love. She trembled under her
frowns and anger only to hasten from them that she might hide the
bitterness which her secret tears could alone soothe. There was no need
of all this. Fanny did not _hate_ the child; no, not even dislike her;
but there was no summer within her soul--no glad sunshine in her
obdurate heart. Yet beneath the icy covering the world saw, which
chilled and frosted the tendrils of love her woman's nature possessed,
there was a clear silvery fountain of emotion, which would have driven
away many a dark hour, with the merry music of its gushing waters, had
not a thick cloud of selfishness shut it in, and the frosts of
discontent sealed it from human vision. But God saw it all, and looked
pityingly into the perverted heart where its rich treasures lay hidden.
"The child is very well," she would say, "as good as children usually
are, I suppose, but of no use. She does not pay for the salt she eats."
"I do not agree with you," replied the mother. "See how much happier
your brother is since he has a companion to talk to and confide in. _I_
was too old to understand his little wants, or even to sympathize with
his poor heart's sorrows. I feel it all now. This is the lesson I have
learned since Phebe has been with us. We were too selfish, Fanny--your
mother and yourself. It may be I was at fault in not tilling and
uprooting the evils in your young heart when it was in my power to do
so, my daughter, and I am willing to confess it to you now. There should
be more flowers growing in the garden of our souls, and less hardy,
sturdy shrubs that yield no fragrance and woo no summer birds to come
and make music for us. Life has changed its aspects for me within a few
short months. It seems all spread out where I can look back upon it;
_not_ sparkling and glowing with good works and love and gentleness, as
it should be; but there are dark places--cold, chill damps that creep
over me at times when I scan the crooked paths over which I have led
you, while one so smooth and flowery, so full of pleasant places and
radiant with beauty, is plainly discernable close beside it, into which
our feet should have turned. God forgive me!" she murmured, while a tear
glistened for one moment in her clear blue eyes. "I did not mean to do
you a wrong; I was worldly and ambitious for your _temporal_ good, but
blinded to your spiritual prosperity. God forgive me!"
"I cannot see where you have committed any such a great sin," replied
the daughter with much feeling. "I have no doubt but that you intended
to to do your duty, and must say my opinion is that you succeeded well.
We had to toil hard to gain our present ease and comfort, but no one can
accuse us of either crime or dishonesty, Mother. I did not speak of the
child because I did not want her here. I only think she might make
herself more useful. I am willing she should read when Willie wants her
to, but she would never do anything else if she could help it."
The door was suddenly opened and Phebe came rushing in, with a light
buoyant step, her cheeks glowing with exercise and her dark eyes
sparkling with joy and animation.
"O Mother! Father is in Boston, but will not be home for two or three
days. You can _never_ guess what he has for Willie," and the happy child
danced about the floor in the exuberance of her glee.
"What business have you to open our letters?" inquired Fanny, beneath
the dark cloud that had gathered during the short recital.
The mirth of the little girl suddenly ceased as she looked at her
interrogator for a moment, but made no reply. Willie, however, appeared
in the door and answered for her.
"The letter was written to _us_, wasn't it, Phebe?"
"It was written to _you_; and Father is going to bring him a large dog
all trained to draw him. O Willie, was there ever anything so nice!" Her
quick anger was gone, and the brightness of the joyous anticipations of
the _something_ that was to bring so much to one she so dearly loved
daguerreotyped itself on her expressive features. Willie saw it all, and
when he had seated himself by the side of his mother on the lounge he
beckoned Phebe to him.
"You are sorry about something, my little sister," he said; "tell me
what it is."
"No, no; I am not sorry. I was only thinking. You will not want little
Phebe when Rover comes. And--and I _do_ like to draw you so much!" and
her lips quivered as she strove to keep back the tears.
"Why, my pretty sister, your eyes were so bright when I first told you,
and I thought that my new possessions were going to make _you_ as happy
as myself; and only a moment ago you exclaimed, 'was there ever anything
so _nice_!' Can you not think so now? It is true I shall not need you
for my horse," he continued, laughing. "But just think how dreary it
will be to ride alone, with no one to speak to or enjoy the sunshine and
cool breezes with me, or gather the pretty flowers along the road, or
the lilies from off the lake! No, no, Phebe; I _cannot_ go alone, and
Father may take the dog back, if you will not go with me. Or perhaps you
imagine that Rover can talk, as well as do many other remarkable things.
Besides you must have forgotten that Father wrote that the wagon is
large enough for two such 'chicks' as we are. So do not feel badly; you
are to go with me, and Rover is to draw us both."
Mrs. Evans clasped them in her arms and drew them tenderly to her.
"My dear children, will you always love each other as you do now? Will
you always be his sister Phebe, and never take away the affection that
makes him so happy? I shall not always be with with you, my children;
but before I leave you, promise me, Phebe, that you will _never_ forsake
him, and I will trust you, young as you are. The time will come when
both of you will pass beyond these years of childhood, and great changes
may come to you; there will be separations, and other homes where it may
be you will live apart. But, Phebe, he is your brother; remember _I_
have given him to you. It is a sacred trust, but you understand it. Will
it be kept safe and firm when he has no mother to lean upon, and no hand
but yours to attend to his wants? Phebe, I love you, and thank God every
day that he sent the lonely 'mariner' to our home, and for the sake of
that love will you be true to my dear boy?"
"I could never live without Willie," and she threw her arms passionately
around the neck of the crippled boy. "I will never leave him Mother; he
couldn't do without _me_, could you Willie?" The boy drew her more
closely to him but could not speak, for his heart was full of his
mother's sad words. He had noticed that her cheek had paled with the
fading of the summer flowers; that her step had grown more feeble and
her kiss more tender as she smoothed his pillow at night and whispered
"God will take care of you my dear, dear boy." And now as he looked into
the pale face and saw the tear-drops glisten on her drooping lashes a
fearful foreboding stole over him, and placing an arm about her neck he
sobbed:
"Mother, do _not_ talk of leaving me! What could your helpless boy do
without you? I must always creep about in the dust for the thoughtless
and cruel to point at, and there is nothing in the future to hope for or
look forward to. O Mother! It is dreadful to be a _cripple_ with no
prospect of being any body or doing any good to others; only a poor,
helpless boy for every passer-by to _pity_!"
"Please do not Willie; it breaks my heart! Remember what God has said,
'the Lord thy God is a merciful God, He will not forsake thee, neither
destroy thee, nor forget the covenant of thy fathers which he sware unto
them.' I have many times laid you, all helpless as you are, as a
cheerful testimony of my poor trembling faith at His feet, and somehow,
Willie, I have felt that he has accepted my precious gift, and that my
boy will be ever under his especial care and love. Look up, there is
sunshine on the other side of the clouds, and its bright beams will gild
your darkness if you will permit them to do so." The slumbering fountain
of the daughter's love was stirred at the sight before her and bowing
her head she wept!
"Mother," she said at last with much emotion; "have you forgotten that
_I_ am his sister? Can you not leave him to _my_ care? I will never
forsake him, and all that I can do to make his life pleasanter _I_ will
gladly do! Did you forget _me_ Mother?"
"Forget you Fanny? You were my first born--my _all_ for many years!
Together we have worked and talked, but, my daughter, you are older and
sterner by nature than my poor helpless one. He wants companionship,
sympathy in his little trials that must ever be peculiar to himself, and
no one can do this as well as one who has suffered and been lonely as he
will always be. No Fanny, _you_ will of course be kind to him and your
reward will be sure."
Phebe had been an inmate of the new home for more than three years.
Happy years they had been, notwithstanding the many trials she had been
obliged to encounter. Her foster-parents were always kind, and it was
there her heart had first learned the luxury of loving and being loved.
How true had been the promise to her "when thy father and thy mother
forsake thee then the Lord will take thee up!" He had taken her and she
was being fitted by his providences for the life that was before her. A
dark shadow was creeping over her path with its sombre forebodings, and
young as she was her soul was chilled by it. She had not noticed it
before, and it was hard to realize even now that it was so distinctly
brought before her. Of one thing, however, she was sure. Willie was
suffering and her little heart poured itself out in words of tenderness
and sympathy.
It was a happy day when Mr. Evans returned from his long voyage and
introduced Rover to his new master. The shadows which had been lingering
over the home circle for two long days suddenly vanished. Then came the
long rides, for as the father had said, "the wagon was ample for the
two," and Rover was able and willing.
But in the pleasant sitting-room that looked out upon the fading lawn
where the leaves were falling from the crimson maples there were sad
talks about a coming separation, and faint, wistful looks into the
far-off future. There were smiles and caresses that fell into "life's
eventide" like sunbeams darting through the western clouds as night
approaches. The wife and mother knew that her days were numbered, and
when the winter storms came and mantled the hillside and spread a pall
over the lonely grave beyond the garden where the cold marble stood, and
the winds mingled their sighs with the sobs and moans of bereaved ones,
the chamber of the slumbering one was entered and the loving mother
slept in a dreamless sleep.
A pall of gloom settled down on the inmates of this once cheerful home!
The cord that had so long bound them all together was broken. What would
the future present to each? Where the wisdom to choose; the firmness and
strength to battle and maintain?
The winds moaned and the snow came and went; the "frost-king" fettered
and unloosed; then the spring appeared and with it changes not only in
the outward world but into the little circle of murmuring ones. The
father must go to sea; a summer voyage was before him. It was harder now
than ever to leave his almost helpless boy without a mother's love to
comfort and cheer him; but it must be done!
"I will take as good care of him as I _can_," Fanny remarked one evening
as the father's solicitude broke out into words.
"To be sure I shall have a great deal more to attend to now, but I
suppose Phebe can help me more than she has done. She is a great stout
girl and might make herself useful if she had a mind to do so. She ought
to be made to understand that she is dependent and should do something
to earn her own living! I cannot afford to keep her for nothing!"
"This home is yours, I am fully aware, Fanny," replied Mr. Evans with
some warmth; "and if you wish it I will take my children out of it and
find them another." Fanny burst into tears and arose to leave the room.
"I will endeavor to be a sister to _both_ of them," she stopped to say
in a subdued tone, and the father was alone.
"I must believe her," he thought at last; "she cannot be _cruel_ to her
poor brother at least!" So in a few days, before the early flowers
decked the garden walks, the father and protector was away upon the
waves, and the home was once more desolate!
Ah, there are sad times in life when even hope seems arrayed in the
sombre habiliments of mourning. The future grows darker and darker as we
gaze upon it; there is no light because we are powerless to penetrate
the clouds that are hanging over us. Who shall lead us out? Timid and
shrinking we stretch our trembling hands out into the gloom when to the
surprise of the fainting heart we feel the gentle grasp of love, while
the way brightens and the faltering feet gain a firmer tread as they
step forward where the shadows are broken and the rugged road appears in
full view.
If Phebe had been a _strange_ child when she entered the cottage, the
intimate companionship of the thoughtful studious cripple had not made
her less so. The events of each passing day had imparted their impress
upon her susceptible nature. Her mind had been an open chalice into
which her foster-brother had poured the hoarded wealth of his own; and
she was learned beyond her years. The little "dumpy figure" was now tall
and well-proportioned for her age, and Willie looked upon her with pride
and admiration. More than this, her heart with its far-reaching
mysteries had been guided close to the cross and around it the tendrils
of its unsolved longings twined themselves. Her dreams of the unreal
were no less, but her realizations of the sterner demands of life were
more. Willie had early learned to tell the pitying Redeemer his tales of
sorrow and deprivations, and where he found comfort and sympathy the
restless Phebe had been led. How kind in the potter to prepare the clay
for his grand purposes of use, although sometimes with a rough as well
as masterly hand! And how can its powers be manifested without the
"fashioning process" or its durability secured in the absence of the
"mouldings" and the fire? The master understood his work and Phebe lay
passively in his hands.
Down by the lake where the wild honeysuckle yielded up its luscious
fruits to the children when the blossoms had disappeared, was a little
arbor where tender fingers had woven the slender branches of the
whispering pines together, and in this sweet bower Willie and his
companion sat every day when the snow and frosts were gone and talked of
the absent mother, wishing that the gentle spirit might be ever near to
check the turbulent winds and smooth down the angry waves.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
"CRAZY DIMIS" AND THE TWILIGHT SCENE.
"What are you thinking about, Phebe? I have watched you ever since we
turned the corner down by the big pine tree, and not a muscle of your
face has moved, as far as I can discover. Tell Willie, won't you?"
Phebe, thus addressed, drew herself up with a long sigh, and passing her
hand mechanically across her forehead, replied, while her eyes remained
seemingly fixed on some far-off object:
"I do not know. See how the sunshine falls in golden patches on the pond
yonder, like what you read about this morning. Willie, I _don't_ want to
be _Phebe_--nothing but little Phebe. I--I want to _fly_! See that bird
going up, up. He will get away beyond the clouds--far above the top of
the mountain yonder. _I_ want to be like him, or something, I do not
know what; don't you, Willie?"
"Yes; though ambitions are not for one like me; but you will be
something besides 'little Phebe,' by and by. I see it in your beaming
face and deep dark eyes; while I must always be 'poor little Willie,'
nothing else. I have for a long time been watching you, and reading my
destiny of loneliness and utter dreariness in your strange, mysterious
words, and knew that they all came from a heart that would never be
satisfied with the plodding life where _I_ must remain. Two paths are
open to us, and I can even now see that they must branch off from each
other. O Phebe, hard as it is to be as I am, I would not hold you,
little bird, from your upward flight; but just think what a terrible
night my future will be without my little Phebe! Then I shall have no
sweet sister to comfort and cheer me when out of patience with myself
and cross because of my infirmity. And I shall not be your own Willie as
now. It is wrong, I know, to feel so, but I cannot help it! It is bitter
enough to know that I must lose you, but your love, little sister, how
can I live without that?"
Phebe was taking a seat beside him, where he had made room for her while
speaking. And, without answering his moan of anguish, she clasped her
arms about his neck and kissed his pale face over and over again.
"Love you?" she exclaimed. "I shall always love you. I do not believe at
all in those paths you have been telling about. What would I want to go
off in another for if you could not follow me? No, no, Willie, I would
not fly away up into the clouds without you; or be something that I so
long to be, for I always want to be your little Phebe--nothing else. I
was only thinking while I sat here and saw Rover draw you out of sight,
how _I_ wanted to go off somewhere! and then I thought of the
_waves_--how they used to talk to me--and just then, Willie, the patches
fell down on the water, and a strange feeling came over me; but it is
gone now, and I want to stay with you. Did not Mother give you to me and
say that I must never leave you? You are my own Willie, just as you
always will be." And with one more kiss she took the reins from his
hand and gave the order for Rover to proceed.
"Ha! ha! ha!" came to them from the thicket near where they had been
sitting, and at the same time two large, wild eyes peered through the
opening a pair of thin bony hands had made in the thick foliage.
"It is Crazy Dimis; don't be afraid," said Willie, as his companion gave
a startled look; "she has been at our house many times when I was a
little boy, and she will not hurt any one. She has escaped from her
imprisonment as she used often to do, but they know she is harmless."
The figure of a woman, tall and straight, but very plainly clad, now
stood before them.
"It is wonderful sweet to love, isn't it silly children? Kisses are like
honey--good on the lips; but they kill sometimes. Ha! ha! Waste them!
throw them away, silly children. They'll be bitter by and by. It's
coming--coming! Don't I know it? Kisses are like candy, mustn't eat too
much, little fools! Beware! the roses will fade and the thorns are
sharp! They'll prick you! Don't I know? Flowers are not for
everybody--plant cabbage! Ha! ha! Crazy, am I? _He_ said so, too. But it
was the adder's tongue that poisoned _my_ life. _His_ love--_his_ kiss.
Beware! Remember I tell you, _beware_!" and with a bound she darted
again into the thicket and was lost from sight.
Willie had taken the reins from his companion as this unwelcome
apparition appeared, but as she vanished Phebe exclaimed:
"What a horrid creature! What makes her talk so strangely? _Who_ is the
one she spoke of? Do you know her?"
"Mother said she was once the brightest, prettiest girl anywhere around;
but her husband disappointed her, and was unkind. It was this, I
believe, that made her what she is. There used to be much good sense in
what she said--shrewd, cunning, and not wholly gibberish. But let us
hurry home; Fanny may want you."
"Flowers are not for everybody. Did she mean me, Willie? Her words make
me shiver!"
While yet speaking they came round to the kitchen door, where Fanny met
them. Something had evidently gone wrong, for she was flushed, and her
step was quick and prophetic. She had many cares, and her temper had not
grown sweeter by their constant pressure.
"You might as well have staid out the rest of the morning, and let me do
everything," was her first exclamation. She was hurrying past, and did
not, therefore, wait for a reply.
"Never mind," said Willie, in a low voice, as he saw the flash of anger
dart up in his companion's eyes. "Take off Rover's harness and hasten
around to help her about the dinner, will you? I will go and read, and
perhaps think over what poor old Dimis said until you have got through.
But promise me," he continued, playfully; "don't you think of her or a
word she said, for it is not true."
"Perhaps we may better do as Fanny suggested, and go out for the rest of
the morning. I wish we could." Willie smiled and wheeled himself into
the house.
There were busy hands in the kitchen until after the dinner hour that
day, but no cheerful word or kindly act were thrown in to lessen its
tediousness or lighten the irksome burdens of the unwilling Phebe. The
face upon which she looked was cold and hard, and a sort of oppressive
bustle seemed to fill the very atmosphere. The knives were to be scoured
and the potatoes washed for the noon meal, and her old dislike of this
work had in no degree left her since she was the "good-for-nothing
child" away in the fisherman's cot by the sea. The departed mother had
often laughed at her aversion, and shielded her from its performance,
but not so with the thrifty Fanny. Indeed, Phebe imagined that these
were reserved for her for the reason that she "hated" to do them, and
this morning they seemed more distasteful than ever before. It was with
no very good grace, therefore, that she went about her task, and as she
stood by the window with the unpolished knives beside her, she thought
of her who was sleeping below the garden wall, and wondered if "she knew
what she was doing, of her impatience and anger." And then the crazy
woman's gibberings came back, "Flowers are not for everybody"; and "the
thorns are sharp, little fools."
"I hope you will get them done in time to set the table," were the
quick, sharp words that broke in upon her reverie, and brought in her
gaze from the far-off to the labor before her. The door was open into
the sitting room, where Willie was amusing himself with a book, and
Phebe called out, "I don't like to scour knives and wash potatoes, and I
_won't_, either. Do you remember it, Willie?" she laughed.
"Well, I guess you _will_," retorted Fanny. "I'd just like to know how
you expect to get a living if you are going to do nothing except what
you want to do. You are no better than I am, and I want you to do this
every day; so keep to work at it, and not be looking out of the window."
Phebe turned, but caught sight of Willie's uplifted hand of warning just
as a bitter retort darted to her lips, and for his sake she smothered
her rage and resumed her hated labor. She did not enjoy any kind of
work, and never hesitated to express her dislike for it. Perhaps, had
circumstances altogether different from those that had surrounded her
brightened up each compulsory service; or a word of love or praise been
dropped now and then over the little burdens, it would have been
otherwise. But she was a dreamer, a child with inborn fancies,
possessing a soul where poetry and beauty reigned as twin sisters,
growing and thriving upon each other's life, but she knew it not. She
was only sure that her heart bounded in the sunshine of genial
associations, and sank with equal velocity beneath the clouds of
depressing influences. A cold word, a frown, would fill her soul with
gloomy shadows for many hours, unless a warm sunbeam from some loving
heart came to drive it away. Kind and cheerful as our little heroine
usually was, there lay coiled up in her nature a demon of anger which
sprang forth at every provocation with the fury of ungoverned passion.
Poor child! It had goaded her long for one so young, and many times she
had struggled to resist its power, but it proved stronger than her will.
Love alone can subdue such natures, while opposition only feeds and
nourishes their faults.
"Get out of my way!" exclaimed Fanny, as Rover was leisurely crossing
her path, while a sudden movement of her substantial shoe gave a new
impetus to his velocity. Phebe saw it, and her heart bounded with
indignation. Dropping her work she darted forward, and throwing her arms
around the neck of the noble dog exclaimed vehemently: "Why didn't you
bite her, Rover? she shall not kick you!" A blow from the enraged Fanny,
and a command to return to her work silenced her for a moment, then with
the fierceness of a tiger she sprang upon her antagonist and dealt blow
after blow upon the astonished Fanny before she had time to recover from
her surprise, or to use her powers of defence. In a moment more, pale
with anger and fright, the child was torn from her position by superior
strength, and forced into her own little chamber with the command "not
to leave it until she received permission." Here was a new feature in
home affairs.
"This child, this _pauper_, shall go where she belongs! The poor-house
is good enough for such as she! At any rate I shall not have such a
wild-cat beneath _my_ roof a great while!"
Willie listened to the ravings of his sister, while his heart throbbed
with unconcealed emotion.
"Yes, and _you_ uphold her no doubt! You pity her and think she has been
greatly wronged--but it makes no difference!"
"I _do_ think, Sister, that had you sought for love you would have found
it, and love worketh no ill to his neighbor."
"Love! I _don't_ want her love or _her_ either! To confess the truth I
am worn out with her and she must leave--that is all!"
"I know very well that you do not like to have me advocate Phebe's
cause, but did you ever notice that her exhibitions of anger only
seemed to be the echo of your own? I have watched her, Sister, with the
most intense interest when laboring under personal difficulties and
perplexities, and I have seldom seen her lose her patience under any
trial. In all the years we have spent together she has never grieved me
by an ill-tempered word or gesture, because _I_ never gave her one."
"So it is all _me_, of course! I must of necessity stand sponsor for my
own sins and her's too!"
"No Fanny, but I would be plain. You _are_ too stern and cold, and at
times unjust! You forget that she is a child."
"I have heard _enough_--she must leave the house!" So saying the enraged
Fanny left the room, the door closing behind her with a prophetic
firmness which Willie well understood.
Phebe sat alone in her chamber until the golden twilight settled down
upon the waters of the little lake and tinted the tree tops that cast
their long shadows out over its bosom, and watched the "lights and
shades" which chased each other down the hillside and over the meadow
until they rested on _two_ graves just beyond the garden wall.
"My mother! O, my mother!" gushed up from the overflowing heart. "Would
that I were beside you! You did not hate me--you did not make me so
wicked!" Tears choked her utterance and blinded her vision. Hours passed
and then a gentle tap was heard on her door, but she did not move. There
had been no steps on the stairs and well did she know who was pleading
outside to share her sorrows.
"Phebe, may _I_ come in? It is your own Willie--come and open the door
if I may enter!" _That_ voice never pleaded in vain. Now it sank down
into the wildly throbbing heart as a soft lullaby, soothing every angry
passion and illuminating the dark chambers of her soul with the sweet
promises of peace.
The door was opened and Phebe returned to her low seat by the window
without a word. Willie was soon beside her, sitting, on account of his
infirmity, at her feet; his calm blue eyes swimming with tears were
fixed intently upon her face, but she apparently did not heed him.
"Will you not speak to me, Phebe? Let me look into your eyes--there is
no anger there for _me_! Nothing but love, I am sure of it! I have read
it there so many times, but let me read it there once more--may I not?"
The arms of the child were thrown about the suppliant's neck and her
tears fell fast as she kissed his pale cheek.
"I am so wicked, Willie! I wish I were good like you and loved
everybody. _You_ never make me angry, but Fanny always does. I can't
help it!"
"Phebe, I love you. What would my life be if you were away? Think how
long the days would be with no one to talk to and no one to say 'I am so
sorry' when sad. In a few years at most Willie will be out there by the
side of Mother, and until then I must creep about just as I always have
done; but I can bear it if I have you to cheer me," and clasping her to
his heart he was not ashamed that his tears mingled with hers.
"I am so sorry, Willie!" she sobbed at length. "I heard Fanny say that
'I should not stay here.' I did not care then, but O, I cannot leave
you. O--I will be very good! If Mother was only here I think I could do
anything--but I am so wicked!"
Darkness had settled down upon the occupants of that little chamber when
Fanny called: "Willie, _your_ supper is ready! Come down immediately and
let Phebe stay where she is!" The child darted to her feet and hastened
to open the door.
"Fanny," she said, with a slight hesitation; "I want to stay here, but
won't you let me ask you to forgive me? I know I am very wicked but I
will try to do better!" The stern, cold Fanny hesitated only a moment,
and then without a smile of encouragement or a cheering caress _agreed_
to the proposition and promised to let her remain for a while until she
had tried her once more. "Now come down to supper," she continued, "for
I am in a hurry to get my work done!" Was _this_ forgiveness? A balm to
heal the wounds of injury? Poor, sin-sick soul! Did thy heavenly friend
ever look so coldly upon thy penitence? When did He ever pour the "gall
of bitterness" into the wounds of a humiliated heart? Small would be the
reward of "human justice" if the intercessor did not continually stand
between us and our petition, "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive
them that trespass against us."
"You are a noble girl!" exclaimed Willie as Phebe returned to her seat
by the window. "I will leave you now; you may come or stay as you
choose--all will yet be right."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
CHANGES IN THE COTTAGE HOME.
Be kind to the child! Build with great care and skill the foundations
upon which is to be reared a life whose influences are to reach into the
ages that have no end. There is no living by one's self, and the great
net-work of human existence may be warped and misshapen by _one_
chilling neglect or a palpable wrong! Even so does the individual life
often become marred beyond remedy when it is tender and susceptible to
the guiding hand. There are natures so finely and sensitively
constituted that every rude blast twists and bends the silver wires of
the organization until the music is dead, and the case, although
polished and beautiful to the eye, stands a wreck of what it should have
been. Such were the surroundings of our little heroine. For fourteen
years she had been the child of "circumstances," her days filled up with
tears and laughter and her nights with idle dreams. No mother's love had
ever twined itself about her young heart to nourish and foster the
tender plants of sweetness and purity which was to make her life
beautiful with their variegated blossoms, or root up the entangling
weeds with which she must ever after contend. Mrs. Evans had indeed been
kind to her as the "companion of her afflicted boy," as she would also
have been to a pet kitten or anything that would have added to the
happiness or comfort of her child. Yet she did not fail to perceive when
her vision began to grow dim to the world that the "casket" which had
been thus opportunely cast at her feet contained jewels which were worth
securing. The last few days and weeks of the only one whom her heart
ever claimed as _Mother_ left their impress on her soul which never
faded away. It was a taste at least of that love for which she had so
often longed--such as a child must have or be miserable! But even that
was all over now. True, Willie had been her dear brother ever since, her
comfort when sorrows overshadowed her, her help through scenes of
trouble. But a cloud darker and denser than any of its predecessors was
spreading itself over them both. Sad news had come to them from over the
sea--the far off dark, dark sea. Alone they sat together in the doorway
one evening where the last rays of the setting sun came and played about
their bowed forms, caressing their damp cheeks; but for once they were
not heeded.
"We are orphans now, Phebe--poor, lone _orphans_! Never did I feel the
miseries of my decrepitude as now! I am helpless, and _who_ will take
care of you? The thought doubles my sorrow! I ought to be a man and
comfort rather than to add to your depression; but I am a weak, helpless
child, even more so, my sister, than you to-night." Phebe raised her
head from her hand where it had been resting and fixed her large eyes
upon the pale face before her.
"Willie, do _I_ look like a child?" she asked. "It has not been
twenty-four hours since we received the sad news that our father had
been swallowed up by the great sea I love so well; still he is not dead
to me, but has only gone where _I_ in my childish fancy so longed to go,
therefore I cannot 'make him dead'; he's only resting while he calls
upon me to act! Willie, I am no longer a child, for every hour has
seemed to add a year to my life since that letter came! I am strong, and
thanks to you and the dear ones who have so long sheltered me from the
storms, I have a little stock of knowledge to begin my future with; I
shall act." Her gaze had wandered off to the golden clouds that were
hanging over the little lake as she spoke, and a look of firm resolve
stole over her features.
"I see my fate written upon your face!" replied Willie mournfully. "How
can I endure the lonely hours, the lengthening days? But I am ashamed of
myself. Somehow the fates have turned against me, Phebe, and have taken
away my years to add them to yours. I will not be so childishly selfish.
But Sister, you will need a friend. How can you go out into the world
alone?"
"I _have_ a friend! Do not, I beg of you, think me so destitute Willie.
Have you forgotten Crazy Dimis?" A low subdued laugh escaped the lips of
both at the suggestion and mingled itself with the soft evening breeze.
Suddenly they started for a voice harsh and cold as a winter's wind was
near them which chilled the soft melody and sent it back to their
wounded hearts in a low sad wail. It was Fanny who spoke.
"Your grief must have been terrible to have been forgotten so soon!" she
exclaimed. "You can go in, Phebe, and take care of the supper table if
you have got through crying," she continued bitterly.
Phebe arose without a word. For once her anger did not rise to goad her.
Could it be that her power over this her greatest enemy had gained
strength also with her seemingly multiplied years?
Fanny took the seat that was just vacated by the side of her brother.
"What is Phebe going to do?" was the abrupt question.
"What would you like her to do? I suppose she will be willing to be
guided by your counsel."
"Humph! Willing! It would be the first time that she was ever willing to
do anything I wanted her to do, and I have not the least doubt that she
would be more unwilling to accede to my wishes at this time than ever
before, for I want her to leave the house! _You_ do not need her now for
you are old enough to amuse yourself I should think, and _I_ certainly
do not! There is to be a new master here before the fall work begins, as
I suppose you know." The last remark was made in a lower tone of voice
and Willie readily understood that she referred to her approaching
marriage with Mr. Hopkins, a young farmer living a few miles away; but
as he made no reply she continued. "I do not suppose he would be pleased
to have _too_ many incumbrances, and Phebe is old enough and able to
take care of herself."
"Perhaps he would like to have me also vacate his prospective premises,"
responded the brother with an unnatural bitterness in his voice.
"O, no! He is well aware that _you_ can do nothing for yourself and has
made no objections to _your_ remaining."
There were sleepless eyes wet with weeping that night beneath the
homestead roof as the midnight hour spread over it her dark wings, but
it bore away on its upward pinions the trusting faith--the childlike
submission of _one_ heart at least to Him who is ever a "father to the
fatherless ones."
"Now for a long ride down by the pond and along the sandy beach, where
we can see the lilies on the water, and if the boat is not fastened I
will gather a few for you once more," prattled Phebe, as on the ensuing
forenoon she walked by the little wagon (which was now too small for
both), as was her usual custom when the morning's work was done.
How could Willie ever forego these pleasures? He would continue his
rides, drawn by the faithful Rover, who had seemed to enjoy these
excursions equally with his young master and mistress. But Phebe always
walked by his side, now patting his soft coat, or gathering flowers for
him who could not skip about so blithely and easily as did she, or now
and then helping the faithful Rover over the rough places, praising and
caressing him for his valor and strength in overcoming difficulties.
Happy trio! And was it possible that all this must end?
"Have you forgotten, Willie, what my true name is? You have not called
me Lily-Pearl for a _long_ time," she remarked, as they came in sight of
the pure white blossoms that dotted the surface of the lake. "_I_ shall
never forget it. See, Willie, that beautiful lily yonder by that large
leaf. How the ripples that come sweeping around the sandbar keep tossing
it up and down, never allowing it to be quiet a moment. O, it really
makes me tired to look at it. Yet that is _me_, Willie! That is
'Lily-Pearl!' I am going to get it for you to keep. When I am gone, and
you look at it, think that I am no more 'little Phebe,' but your own
'Lily,' who will never forget or forsake you, my brother." Saying this
she bounded into the little open boat, and with accustomed dexterity
soon made her way to the point designated. It was no unusual labor for
her willing hands, it being one of her greatest amusements when the
little pond was decked with these fragrant blossoms to gather them.
Willie watched her for a moment, as she glided away from him, and then
his coming desolation swept over his soul like a flood, and her form was
hidden from his sight.
"See, Willie, I have it!" she exclaimed, as she held up the coveted
treasure, exposing the long, smooth stem, by which, as she said, the
mother pearl held it fast. "It came near pulling me in. Did you see me,
Willie?"
But he did not. See her? How could he through all those blinding tears
that came bubbling up rapidly from his bursting heart? He had crept from
his seat in the wagon and made his way to a grassy knoll close by, and
there beneath the shade of the old oak tree where they had often sat
together he gave free vent to his emotions. The sky was calm and blue
above him, and here and there a soft, fleecy cloud floated through the
clear sunbeams of the July morning; the lake, beautiful in its gorgeous
frame-work of hills and woods, lay spread out like a mirror, upon which
the rays danced and sported close to the water's edge, penetrating the
shadows, and lulling the murmur of the leaves, throwing over the
prostrate figure of the weeping boy a net-work of lights and shades
from the branches above him. Phebe had seen him from the boat, and in a
moment more was standing beside him, her heart throbbing with sympathy
and grief. She had thought to keep away this dark shadow for awhile by
her merry words, but it was over now; and throwing her arms about his
neck, she exclaimed:
"Willie, my dear brother, do not feel so badly. It is true, I must go
and leave you for a time, but you are mine--all I have to love and work
for. What do I care for any but you? Yes, I must go. I heard what Fanny
said last night, but it was no more than I have heard before, or than I
expected. Yet it makes me strong. I can leave you now, but only for a
little while. We will not be separated long. _I_ will come to you. Our
mother gave you to me, and I promised to cling to you. O Willie, you
shall see how I can work, how much I can accomplish! I will do more than
was ever done before me by a 'cast-away.' Do you not believe me?"
Putting her hand under his head, she turned his pale wet face up to her
view. He did not try to prevent her, but lay quietly as she placed him.
"Look into my eyes, Willie. _I_ am not weeping. It seems to me I can
never shed another tear. I feel so strong! The future, Brother! O the
future! What a great huge painting it seems! But it is not full yet. _I_
shall do something there; _my_ hands will help to color it. Yes, _I_,
little Phebe."
"I do not doubt it. There is a destiny for such as you. A mission awaits
you. I will be more brave, more manly. You could not remain with me. A
higher position than the partnership with a cripple or hostler to a big
mastiff is meted out to you."
A smile for an instant broke over his clouded face, and Phebe laughed
outright.
"Give me the lily," he said, at last, reaching out his hand for the
coveted treasure. "We will divide it. You shall have the long smooth
stalk while _I_ will keep the flower. Henceforth you are my lily, sweet
and precious to me; while _I_--_I_--well, I am nothing but the withered,
crooked tendril seeking to wind itself about your loving heart."
She darted from his side before the last sentence was finished, and her
companion following with his eyes her light, buoyant figure, saw
standing on an elevation of ground not far off, the well known form of
Crazy Dimis.
"I have found a double blackberry," she called, holding up something
between her long, bony thumb and finger, "come and see it."
Phebe went to her.
"Those are not double, Aunt Dimis," she exclaimed.
"Don't two make a double? Put them together and then they do--there!
It's a good omen for you, silly child. Make them double, help the time.
We must help. Ha! ha! And help Fate! Don't _I_ know, child? Fate is
waiting for you! Go and help her make omens. But make them good! Ha! ha!
_I_ didn't but I will. Silly fools. Cry and love; by and by it will be
love and cry. Don't I now? Go back to _him_! _I_ don't want you." And
with a bound she sprang over the fence and was lost in the thick
underbrush of the honeysuckle swamp.
Phebe called loudly after her but she was not heeded. She wanted to ask
her about a certain good lady, Mrs. Ernest, for this same half-crazed
gibbering woman had awakened an interest for Phebe in the heart of Mrs.
Ernest, and it was no idle jest when she told Willie that "Crazy Dimis"
was her friend. She now returned slowly to her companion, who was
watching her.
"What did that crazy creature say to you?" he asked, somewhat
impatiently. "Nothing good, I know."
"Yes it was. She told me to go and help Fate. I suppose she meant to
have me fill up that picture I was telling you about, and I must go.
To-morrow I shall start. Do not look at me so! you shall know
all--everything I do or hope to do; and I shall come to see you often.
Mrs. Ernest has promised to help me all she can, and I think I can make
her my friend. It will be only a short run for Rover, and you must ride
over there often--as often as you would like to hear from me, will you?"
She kissed his white forehead, then giving a low shrill whistle, which
the faithful dog well understood, she said: "We must go home, for it is
time to help get dinner."
In a moment more Rover with his wagon came up in good style, and they
started down the path which wound around by the meadow brook through the
clump of pine trees which stood as sentinels over the two graves beyond
the garden wall.
"How I wish Father were sleeping there instead of beneath the waves,"
cried Willie; and no other word was spoken. What wonder? How soon the
paths were to branch off from each other! Already the lonely cripple
felt the shadows creeping over him that were surely to cover his dreary
pathway as he wandered on alone. His heart was full of these sad
forebodings, and he pressed the memento of his helplessness more closely
in his hand as the spirit of rebellion for a moment arose to goad him.
Then "I will never leave thee nor forsake thee" came as a soft and
gentle whisper to his soul, and looking up as Rover halted by the
kitchen door he said mildly: "We shall all come together again, Phebe."
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
OUT INTO THE WORLD.
"There! That is the _third_ time I have called that girl this morning!
She can lie in bed now until she gets tired of it! It is so provoking!
And after telling her last night that I should want her early. I am out
of all patience!"
Willie could not suppress a smile as this volley of indignation greeted
him upon entering the breakfast room on the morning following the scenes
related in our last chapter, although his heart was sad, but he made no
reply and Fanny continued: "I _had_ made up my mind to let her stay a
while longer; perhaps through the winter, for after all it is hard to be
sent out into the world to earn one's own living! Besides, _she_ would
never get along! No one would have patience with her, for work she will
not! And how can a poor girl get her living if she will not work? But it
is all up now! I can't and won't support her for nothing!" Fanny's rapid
step and the brisk rattling of the breakfast dishes kept up all the time
an active accompaniment to her words as she continued talking while
preparing their early morning meal.
Willie listened to it all as he sat by the window and looked out upon
the dewy grass and took in the soft beauties of the variegated landscape
that lay stretched out before him, over which the first rays of the
summer sun came gently stealing, driving back the dark shadows into the
thick woodland upon the hillside. He then opened the window. There was
music in the maple trees near where the robins had built their
nests--there was fragrance in the cool fresh breeze that came and fanned
his troubled brow. Just outside the yard the hay-makers stood with
laughter and jest while they whetted their glittering scythes
preparatory to their daily labor, while all the time their brown faces
wore the pleasant smile of health and contentment. Poor Willie! He could
only sit and look at them and pray for patience and resignation.
A remark from Fanny recalled him, and he replied: "I would go and call
her but it would be useless for she is not here!"
"Not here? What do you mean? Has she gone?"
"Yes, she has gone, and it is my opinion Sister that you will miss her
nearly if not quite as much as _I_."
"Gone! The heartless creature! This is all the thanks one ever gets for
taking care of a good-for-nothing nobody for years! It is pretty pay now
to clear out just as she _might_ have been of some use, and without a
word too!"
"You must have forgotten all you have been saying to her ever since we
received the sad news of Father's death," replied Willie with some
bitterness. "Still you are mistaken; she did not leave without a word.
She has told me several times that she was going, although I could not
believe it, and when I came out of my room I found this letter under my
door. You can read it if you wish when you have time."
Without a word she took it from his hand and read as follows: "I cannot
_say_ good-bye Willie, and so as soon as the gray dawn creeps over the
mountain top I shall steal from this house and go--God only knows where!
I came here eight years ago a little strange child, leaving the first
real friend in all my life far behind on the road to grieve at my
absence, and now I _go_ leaving only you my brother to be sad because I
am not here. _You_ will miss me; and when I think how lonely you will be
without your 'little Phebe' to talk to I shall shed many tears. O,
Willie! It is dreadful to leave the only one who loves us to go off
alone, but I shall find friends, I know I shall! Do not be unhappy. Tell
Fanny sometime, if she _ever_ inquires as to my welfare, that I should
have been happier to-night if she had loved me, or at least had
exercised more patience with my many faults. I know I have tried her.
Somehow I am not like the other girls about here; they are satisfied,
but _I_--yes, Willie, I want to fly--go up among the clouds or down
among the pearls--I don't know which, but some spirit goads me on--God
only knows where. I am looking out to-night upon the world where I am
going for my new life with more fear and trembling than when in a little
open boat I drifted away over a stormy ocean all alone. But it is better
so. A hundred times I have shivered and shrunk before the storm of
Fanny's indignation, and as I remember it, a peace steals over me even
now with the great unknown future before me. I did desire to do all she
asked of me, but I could not and so I must go! Perhaps she may yet
think kindly of me, who knows? I am strong to-night dear Willie,
notwithstanding this paper has so many tear-stains upon it! How a few
days have changed me--no longer a child but a woman going forth, as
Crazy Dimis commanded me, 'to make my fate, make omens.' So good-bye;
remember what I told you you of Mrs. Ernest. PHEBE."
It was finished and Fanny handed it back to her brother without
speaking. O how long that day seemed! The sun came out hot and sultry,
drinking up the dew from the grass and withering the soft petals of the
flowers; the locust sang his monotonous song in the shade and the mowers
went busily on with their work, and the hours crept slowly by. Fanny was
unusually silent; her busy hands seemed never to tire, but her face all
day wore a weary, anxious look such as betokened thought.
It was late in the afternoon, just before the time for milking, that she
came and seated herself on the lounge by her brother. Perhaps the memory
of that mother who once sat there on just such a bright summer evening
four years before came back to her, for it was then when she told Phebe
never to leave her poor lame boy, always to love and comfort him. Who
was to blame that the child was now an outcast, or that the poor
motherless cripple sat there in that very spot lonely and sad? She did
not speak for a moment as if ashamed of the womanly emotion that swelled
her bosom. At last she said hurriedly: "What did Phebe mean about Mrs.
Ernest?"
"She has told me that I could hear about her by going there
occasionally."
"Why did you not go to-day?"
"I thought I would wait until to-morrow, then perhaps I might hear
more," was the low reply. "She can have no definite plans as yet, but I
will go in the morning."
"I will harness Rover any time for you," continued Fanny as she moved
away to attend to her evening duties.
Willie dropped his head upon the pillow beside him and lay there
motionless and still until the twilight shadows came creeping in at the
window, covering him with a thick black pall. He could have wished that
night that they might have buried him forever with their sombre folds,
so harshly did life's greatest joys contrast with his overwhelming
griefs!
Early the next morning Willie was on his way to the village drawn by the
faithful Rover. It was a long time since he had been over that road
alone, and at first he felt like shrinking from the task.
A carriage came and swept over the brow of the hill, drew nearer, then
passed him. A lady occupied the back seat alone. She was a stranger but
their eyes met. Hers so full of tenderness and pity--his bright with
apprehension and suspense. He was sure that a tear glistened in her blue
eye, but when he turned to look again she was gone. The driver he knew.
The carriage belonged to the village hotel, and "Frank" always drove
that span of grays. Once more Willie turned to look, and as he did so
saw that the lady had bent forward as if to speak to him. "She knows how
to sympathize with such as _I_," he thought, "for her expression was so
kindly and gentle. Those eyes--they were so like my mother's. A deep,
heavenly look as if wishing for something she had not yet received,
which found its way into hers before they closed forever!" and a tear
dimmed his own vision for a moment only; then his thoughts returned to
the beauties around him and to _her_ he was going perhaps to see again.
The roads were fine and Rover was in excellent spirits, so that in a
short time the village church loomed up in sight. Close by it was the
parsonage--beyond the long row of neatly-painted dwellings surrounded
with bright green shrubbery and a pleasant lawn reaching to the road,
finally the hotel with its balconies and lofty cupola, which overtopped
the principal business portion of the unassuming little town. To the
farther store on the main street Willie was to go on an errand for his
sister, but first of all he would call at the parsonage. How his heart
bounded with the prospect of coming joy, then sank again as the
uncertainty rolled over him. Where was Phebe?
And where was Phebe? That morning, with her eyes full of tears she had
stood in the little chamber where she had spent so many pleasant hours
and dreamed so many pleasant dreams; the room she must now leave, with
all of its hallowed associations, its garnered memories, to prove the
Father's unfailing promises of care and protection!
"You could not have forseen all this dear, dear Mother!" she mused as
she turned to the window where the white marble stood so chill and
comfortless in the morning shadows, "or you would never have placed your
helpless boy in my care. But I must go. This pleasant cottage is my home
no more! The flowers I have planted in the garden yonder--the bed of
lilies these hands have tended so long for _your_ sake must bloom on
without me."
The first rays of the morning sun crept up from behind the eastern hills
and rested as a sweet prophetic peace on the tree-tops that reared their
stately heads above the lingering night shades, and taking the letter
she had written the night previously stole softly from the room and
thrust it under the door where Willie was sleeping all unconscious of
the wretchedness that was wringing such bitter tears from her loving
heart as she thought how he would miss her, and how lonely would be his
morning ride down by the little pond without her. "Farewell!" she
whispered, and then descended the stairs, stopping a moment to kiss the
noble Rover and quickly passed on out in the world! The short past with
its changes, its reachings and its longings were to be left behind,
while the broad future with its hopes, allurements and ambitions lay
before her. With a shrinking heart but firm tread she stepped into the
untried path and walked steadily forward. Someone has said that "the
secret of true blessedness is _character_, not condition; that happiness
consists in not _where_ we are but _what_ we are. Our lives resemble
much the Alpine countries, where winter is found at the side of summer,
and where it is but a step from a garden to a glacier." Our little
heroine found this to be so. It had been summer in the little cottage,
not all sunshine nor all storms, for the days were as ever changeful and
the years scattered over her life their shadows and their peaceful
calms. "Go help fate make omens" Crazy Dimis had said, and with many a
firm resolve she had said to Willie, "I will do it!" There was a world
of mysteries before her out of which the "omens" were to be created, and
little did she understand the way in which she was to be led. The
perjured woman whose daughter had given birth to "Lily-Pearl" had
listened to the whisperings of the serpent, and the great problem of
justice was to be worked out in the ever changing adventures of "poor
little Phebe," and now with a satchel in her hand she had left _all_ she
had known of love, and was alone upon the road where the cool morning
zephyrs petted and caressed her. "My life!" she thought as she walked on
towards the parsonage. "If we are God's children we need not fear the
developments of His changing providences," Mr. Ernest had said to her
one day while speaking to him of her future, and now these words came to
her as bright and cheering as the rays of the morning sun, for both had
driven away the darkness from her faith. Years after did memory return
to this early morn to tread again the sandy road and listen to the
chorus of the birdling's song, or watch with palpitating heart the
silvery glories as they spread themselves over the eastern sky; and then
return to the noonday scenes of an eventful life through which she had
been guided.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
AN UPPER ROOM IN THE HOTEL.
Mrs. Ernest while bustling about in her kitchen saw her visitor
approaching, and with broom in hand came out to welcome him. He was no
stranger here, and few ever came who received a warmer greeting.
"How bright and fresh you look from your early morning ride," was the
good lady's salutation, and throwing down a piece of carpet on the damp
ground stood patting Rover and chatting merrily all the while as Willie
crept into the house.
"I suppose _I_ am not to feel at all flattered by this early call, for
already something tells me that Phebe is the object of your visit," she
laughingly said, while following him into the house; "so I will turn you
over to Mr. Ernest with all the indignation I can muster," and patting
him on the shoulder she cheerily invited him to the study.
The occupant of the quiet room was stretched in an attitude of languid
repose upon the sofa as they entered, but probably in deep meditation.
When, however, he discovered who had intruded into his season of
reveries, he arose with a face all beaming with smiles, and took the
little extended hand in his own and placing an arm about his visitor
lifted him with ease into a chair close by.
"Now, Ella, you may go and give Rover that plate of chicken bones you
saved for 'some hungry dog,' for he above all others deserves it."
Here was a happy home.
"There was always sunshine at the parsonage," Willie would say. If
clouds ever came they were so effectually concealed that they never fell
upon another. The brightest spot on earth--the place more to be coveted
than palaces or posts of honor--is the peaceful, happy home, the nucleus
around which fond hearts are gathered, where the compact of love remains
unbroken only as death comes and steals away a link of the golden chain
that binds fond hearts together.
"Is not Phebe here?" Willie asked after a few moments conversation.
"O no; she did not remain with us many hours; but she is not far away,"
replied Mr. Ernest, pleasantly. "I will tell you about her. There is a
lady boarding at the hotel, an invalid, I believe, who has come to our
village, as gossip tells us, after health,--happiness, rather, as I
believe, for she seems very sad at times. I have called on her often,
and at one visit she expressed an earnest wish for some one to read to
her. I thought of Phebe at once, and when she came to us yesterday
morning and told her story, of which, we were not wholly ignorant, I
thought nothing could have been more _apropos_, and so I went over there
with her. The lady seemed much pleased, and I have no doubt Phebe will
be very happy there."
"I think I must have seen her when I was coming," interrupted Willie. "A
lady passed me in the hotel carriage who had a sad, pensive look; I am
sure it was she."
"I have no doubt you are right, for she rides out every day. I wonder,
however, that Phebe does not take the opportunity to run over here for a
moment."
But she did not.
Willie stayed longer than he first intended, hoping to see her again,
but finally started for the store on his errand, passing the place where
_she_ had found her new home without even catching a glimpse of her,
although he sought diligently to do so. Had he known that she was then
engaged in penning a long sisterly letter to him he would not have been
so thoroughly wretched all that day and the next.
It was some consolation, however, that Fanny seemed so much interested
in her now that she was away. She was minute in her inquires on his
return, yet did not appear _quite_ pleased when told that Phebe was
_only_ to read to her new mistress.
"Worse and worse," was her exclamation, "she was good for nothing
before, what will she be now?"
"We shall see," was Willie's quick reply.
But he was thinking how much he would enjoy being there to listen as she
read. He was not mistaken in regard to his conclusions about the lady in
the carriage. It was Mrs. Gaylord, in whom Phebe had found a friend and
protector. She had taken rooms at the hotel only a short time before,
having no other company than a young mulatto girl about Phebe's age, who
seemed devoted to her mistress, and mild and affable to all, yet she
answered very few of the questions that were put to her by the
inquisitive.
"They had come from Virginny, and would go back dare when Missus had got
nuff of dis 'ere norf," was about the extent of the knowledge obtained
from "Tiny" on any occasion.
Three weeks passed away and Phebe had not once seen "dear Willie." Mr.
Ernest had told her of his frequent visits to the parsonage, and of the
pleasure that would beam in his blue eyes as he received her letters
from him; but no amount of persuasion could prevail upon him to make a
visit to the hotel, which was much to Phebe's disappointment. She was
always busy now. When she was tired of reading or the lady of listening,
she was engaged with her needle.
"Young people are inclined to home-sickness if not employed," Mrs.
Gaylord would say, pleasantly, and so Phebe was seldom idle.
During these seasons of occupation they had talked much. Phebe had told
her all she knew about her early history, and her listener had many
times laughed heartily at the recital, but not a word had she ever
spoken of her own life. There was a dark cloud resting upon her, it was
evident, for her companion had often looked up suddenly from her book to
see the tears falling silently from the calm eyes, who would brush them
hurriedly away as she said "go on"; and Phebe obeyed. At one time she
smiled when detected, and drying her eyes she said, mildly--
"What is jealousy, little one? You have just been reading about it. What
is _your_ definition of the word?"
"Willie would say 'an unjust suspicion; a sense of imaginary wrong
without proof';" answered Phebe, hesitatingly.
She laughed now.
"O you little novice! How far you are behind the times. That definition
might have done for your grandmother, but it will never do for these
modern days. I will tell you, child, what it is, or what it means now.
It is a wail of despair which the heart gives over the loss of its
dearest treasure. The anguish of its desolation when the fire of love
burns low; the cry of woe when it sees the vacant chair in its most
secret chamber, and desolation looks with hungry eyes out from among the
shadows of its former trysting place! Does the poor heart murmur? Does
it put on the sackcloth and the sprinkling of ashes? Love is not dead,
but straying, _straying_! This is jealousy. The vacation of one heart
for--for--well, child, _you_ know nothing about it, and may you long
remain in ignorance."
She bowed her head and wept long and bitterly.
Phebe moved the ottoman on which she was sitting close by the side of
the agitated lady and laid her head upon her knee. A bond of sympathy
drew them together. A chord had been touched to which the heart of each
vibrated in unison. Desolation was creeping among the shadows in the
secret chamber of both hearts, and the feeble wail of woe which came
from the lonely hearth-stones mingled in low, solemn cadence, and they
two were united by these bonds of sympathy. A soft, white hand nestled
lovingly among the braids of the young girl's hair as the bowed head
still rested its heavy weight on the lady's rich dress, and from that
moment a sweet confidence took possession of them both.
Ah! there is nothing so invigorating and comforting in this ever
changing life as the sweet assurance of reciprocal affection in the
hour of despondency and gloom. A mother's kiss, a father's fond caress,
soon dries the tear and soothes the pain of childhood, and can it be
that their power grows less towards the children of accumulated years?
"Did I speak bitterly just now; my child?" the lady asked, after a long
silence. "I hope I did not frighten you."
Phebe looked up into the sad face that was beaming now with a full glory
of consolation as she answered:
"O no; I was not frightened. Even in my short life I have seen sorrow,
and know well what it means. Ever since we have been together I have
believed that something troubled you, and it has made me--"
"Made you what, my child?"
"Made me love you, O may I do this? Will you let little Phebe creep into
your heart and find a resting place there? O Mrs. Gaylord, I am so
lonely! Nobody but Willie--and he is lost to me now."
The large eyes were gazing with their far-off, mysterious look, which
Willie had so often watched with a tremor of apprehension in his heart;
but there were no tears in them. The wail was from the secret chamber,
and the lady recognized it.
[Illustration: "O, MRS. GAYLORD, I AM SO LONELY."]
"Yes, dear," was her answering refrain. "You shall nestle cosily in this
poor quivering heart if you desire it. I was once a lonely orphan like
yourself, and I pined for a love I could not find. It is dreadful--this
chilling desolation of life. At twenty I married, and was alone no
longer. My yearning heart was satisfied, not because of the luxury that
surrounded me, or the honors with which I was crowned as the bride of
the rich young southerner. No, no. Sweeter by far than all of this was
the assurance that I was loved. That was many years ago, when my face
was fair and my cheeks covered with bloom. It is over now, and with my
youth and beauty went the love which was more precious than all. _His_
hair has lost its glossy hue and his step its elastic bound; but for
these my heart has suffered no reaction, yet it bears to-day the scars
of _many_ wounds. Some are not yet healed, and memory often rends them
anew until the tears _will_ come trickling through the torn fissures.
But I must not grieve you, my child. The world calls me happy, for it
penetrates not the covering that my proud spirit has thrown over all,
and I am willing it should be deceived. I came to this quiet village to
gain strength to endure; when I have accomplished my object I shall
return to my Virginia home. It is a bright spot to the looker on, full
of plenty and repose for one whose soul has power to take them in; and
to this home, my sweet comforter, I would take you."
Phebe started.
"Smother that refusal in those bewitching eyes, for I shall take none of
it," she laughed. "You have just pleaded for my love. What good under
the sun will it do you when hundreds of miles are piled up between us?
No, no. We need each other. The days we have been together have made you
a necessity to me. Do not answer me now," she continued, gently placing
her white hand over the lips of her companion, as she saw them move for
utterance. "Take a few more days to think of it. We have plenty of time.
Talk to me now about this Willie, of whom you have spoken. You did not
tell me that you loved him, but is it not so, my child?"
"Yes, I love him more and better than any one else. He is a poor
cripple, four years older than I, and we have been together every day
since his father brought me to him. His mother loved us both, and when
she was about to die, she gave him to me, and told me never to forget or
forsake him. How can I leave him to go with you? He has been such a dear
brother to me for so many years; _you_ would love him, too, I am sure,
if you knew him as well as I."
"How your cheeks glow, little enthusiast! Now let me ask, is your hero
drawn by a dog usually?"
"Yes. I was sure you must have seen him during some of your rides for he
has come to the village often since I have been here."
"I have met him only twice, but even these faint glimpses into his
peaceful face takes away my wonder at your heart's bestowal. It was pity
that caused me to notice him and long for another beam from the liquid
eyes, and now that I know who he is I can but feel hurt that you have
not invited him to our rooms. It would do me good I know to study that
character and learn resignation from its teachings."
"May I? O--you do not know how much I thank you! I will go this very day
to the parsonage, with your permission, to tell him. He may be there,
when it is cooler, to hear from me; and _if_ I could meet him!"
"Did I not say that it was _my_ wish to study him for sake of the good
it might do me?" and she kissed the glowing cheek of the young girl with
a passion unusual to her. "Then go at once if you hope to see him, but
hasten back for I am too selfish to permit you to remain long away. It
is lonely, darling, and I cannot understand how I ever lived without
you."
"You are so good!" and Phebe pressed the soft caressing hand to her
trembling lips.
Nothing is more sweet than to be guided into this realm of thought by
the precious foretaste of the love that awaited her when the end should
be reached. She had gone out into the darkness expecting nothing but
chilliness and gloom, but instead she was walking "by the side of still
waters" and there was freshness and beauty all along the way. Still a
portentous cloud was floating in the clear blue of her gilded sky, for
how could she ever leave Willie to go with Mrs. Gaylord to her southern
home? The weeks were rapidly passing, and when the hot summer days had
all flitted away there would come a change, and her life had received so
many already! "Where would the next one take her?" As she stepped in
front of the mirror for a moment a smile of satisfaction stole over her
young face. The new hat Mrs. Gaylord had purchased for her was very
becoming, as that lady had asserted, and she thought how it would please
Willie to see her looking so well. He had often lamented during the last
two years that it was not in his power to procure these little luxuries,
and she went on her way with a happy heart.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
THE OPENING OF A NEW LIFE.
"And whether we be afflicted, it is for our consolation and salvation,
which is effectual for the enduring of the same sufferings which we also
suffer; or whether we be comforted it is for our consolation; for as all
hearts suffer, all have the power of consolation."
"Mrs. Gaylord had suffered, and out of the sad experience of her
eventful life had come the power to administer to others." Such was
Phebe's thought when on her way to the parsonage, which stood in the
suburbs of the village surrounded by its fresh green lawn that had
always appeared so winning to the lovers of beauty, and peaceful to the
seeker after "consolation."
Mr. Ernest also knew how to bestow this gift on the weary heart. His
early days had not been filled with the bright things that rightfully
belong to childhood, and his after years were those of toil and
strugglings. He understood well how to apply the sympathies so consoling
to those whose feet are torn with the thorns by the way.
Our little pedestrian was walking away from one minister of comfort to
another who was equally skilled, and it was with the greatest difficulty
that she could keep her airy feet down upon the well-beaten track which
ran along by the side of the broad highway to the pleasant home of the
village pastor, where she hoped to find Willie and extend to him Mrs.
Gaylord's pressing invitation. Mr. Ernest had told her that he usually
came in the early morning or in the cool of the evening, and now the sun
was fast sinking down behind the western clouds. There might be a storm
approaching, for the breezes were fresh and cool, and she could but
think how the ripples were sweeping around the "sand-bar" and lifting
the broad lily-pads among the rushes not far out from where the pleasant
row-boat was fastened to the old oak tree. Should she ever glide in the
little boat over the lovely blue waters again? And then, when the stern
old winter had thrown his coverlet of ice across its throbless bosom,
when the lilies were all asleep in their cozy beds, what delightful
rides she and Willie had enjoyed on its smooth surface as Lloyd Hunter
drew them on his large comfortable sled. Was all this gone forever? She
reached the door, and as no one was in sight, stopped a moment while her
thoughts went on.
Willie was not there, for his visit had been made in the morning.
"I am going by there to-morrow."
Phebe's eyes brightened.
"May _I_ go with you? Mrs. Gaylord will not let me walk so far, it not
being 'lady-like,'" she smiled. "She has invited him to our rooms, and I
am so anxious."
"Certainly, my dear; but be all ready, for I have an engagement at nine,
eight miles away."
There had been no need for this last suggestion, for Phebe felt quite
sure that with such a prospect before her she could not sleep at all.
Still, after talking the matter over with Mrs. Gaylord, and getting her
consent for the proposed visit, her heart felt a reaction at the thought
of again meeting Fanny. It seemed long since she had been there, and the
partition wall which had divided them while still together, had not been
lowered by a single act, and now really appeared more formidable than
ever when viewed at such a distance. How could she ever meet her?
When the morning sun sent his bright beams into her window she sprang
from her bed with the question still unanswered.
"Good morning," said Mrs. Gaylord, putting her head in at the door at
that very moment.
Phebe was surprised. Seldom did the lady leave her room before all of
the rest had breakfasted.
"O, you needn't look so wonderingly at me," she continued, laughing. "I
only thought I would tell you to put on your new white dress, as it is
such a lovely morning, and then I want you to appear your best, for I
know _he_ will appreciate it," and she was gone.
"Well does she know how to be a comforter," thought Phebe.
How well she remembered at that moment the last walk she had with Willie
down by the little pond, and his mournful wail of desolation as they
talked of his lonely future without her!
The bell sounded along the hall telling all who desired an early
breakfast that it was now ready, so hastening with her toilet, she
opened the door leading to Mrs. Gaylord's room, and to her surprise
found her also ready to go with her.
"I have had a new thought," she said gaily, "and have ordered the
carriage. We will go together and take him out for a little airing.
Rover, I have no doubt, will be much obliged to be excused for one day.
Two miles and a half is a pretty long road for such a brute to draw so
heavy a load."
Phebe made no answer, for she was a little disappointed. She had
anticipated the walk back and the uninterrupted talk more than she had
herself been aware of.
"Do you not like my arrangement?" queried the lady, artlessly.
Phebe expressed much pleasure at the prospect, and, come to think of it,
"the new plan was preferable, as it would take away all embarrassment in
the meeting with Fanny."
The carriage was at the door when the two were ready, and in a few
minutes they halted before the parsonage to report the change. Then away
they rolled on their delicate errand of pleasure and comfort.
Never had Phebe looked so fresh and pretty as now. Her plain hat of
white straw sat jauntily on her heavy braids of jetty hair, from beneath
which her dark eyes shone with a new brilliancy, her dress, about which
Mrs. Gaylord had been so particular, set off her well rounded form to
the best advantage, and as she sat by the richly attired lady no one
would have imagined that the two were mistress and menial. Some such
thoughts must have passed through the mind of the young girl, for her
cheeks glowed, and an air of worth if not superiority, sat with easy
dignity upon her every movement.
"There he is," she exclaimed, as they came in sight of the white cottage
among the maples. "He is waiting for us."
"Hurry Frank," said the lady, "he does not yet recognize you Phebe."
"Willie, dear brother Willie!" she called out as the carriage drew up
before the gate, and in a moment she had darted down by his side, and
throwing her arms around his neck said cheerily: "Come, Willie, Mrs.
Gaylord wants to take you out for a ride! It is lovely, and Rover can
have a rest!" His face crimsoned as he realized that strangers were
witnessing their joyful meeting. Unperceived Mrs. Gaylord had
approached, and holding out her hand said pleasantly: "Phebe was so
selfish that she was going to have you all to herself but I concluded to
defeat her plans. Will you be so kind as to go with us and spend the day
at our rooms? We will try to make it very pleasant for you." All this
was said with so much tenderness that it would have been impossible for
the poor boy to refuse.
"Let me get your hat, for I see that you are all ready as usual," and
Phebe forgetting her dread of the "frigid Fanny" rushed into the house,
meeting that important personage on the very threshold.
"Good morning" was her cheerful salutation; "we are going to take Willie
away from you for a few hours, and I have come for his hat."
"He has not been to breakfast yet," was the chilling reply. "I think you
had better wait and give him time to eat."
"Perhaps it would be better," ejaculated Phebe as she passed her, hat in
hand.
"In the meantime would you not like to go with me down our pleasant walk
to the pond?" asked Phebe, as she came back where Mrs. Gaylord and
Willie were conversing familiarly. The lady cheerfully consented and
they were soon out of sight among the trees that skirted the meadow
brook. When they returned, Willie was sitting by the side of Frank and
his usually pale face was flushed with excitement.
"If you like we will go around by the old town road," said the driver as
the rest of his company became seated. "It will be two miles farther
back but it is cool and shady." "All right!" and the happy trio were
rapidly borne away. Phebe had told her friend how her "dear brother"
became so helpless and his sensitiveness in regard to it, and had more
than once seen the tears of sympathy glisten in the fine eyes of the
listener at the narration.
"His feet and limbs below the knees have not grown since he was a baby,"
she had said; "and of course they cannot bear the body, which is well
developed. He can creep about very well, but is unwilling that any one
outside of his own home should see him. When a mere child he has told me
his manner of locomotion was to sit and _hitch_ himself about, which
gave him the appellation among the boys of 'hitch Evans' which so
mortified his pride that he would not appear among them."
"Poor boy!" was the low response. Now, however, Mrs. Gaylord chatted
pleasantly with him about the beauties of the landscape--the fading
glories of the passing summer and of her own home in the sunny south,
until as he said after, "I forgot that I was a mere cypher amid it all."
At last they arrived at the hotel, and as Frank with his strong arms set
him on the broad winding stairway he scrambled up to the top on his
hands and knees, laughing as he did so because Phebe would wait for his
slow movements rather than trip forward with Mrs. Gaylord, who wanted to
see if Tiny had all things in readiness.
It was a delightful day to them all. Dinner was served in the upper
room, and Phebe thought as she watched the glowing face of her brother
that it was never before half so beautiful as now. Was it because Phebe
was again near him? Or had the kind words and suggestions of his new
friend aroused energies of which before he was not conscious? It was
true that every moment had been filled with reading and conversation and
it was all so new to Willie! "It is a fact," continued Mrs. Gaylord
after Tiny had taken off the last dish from the table; "that many with
far less brains and more inefficient than yourself have filled important
places in the world's history. With exercise I do not see why your body
should not become sturdy and robust. I have a friend in Boston who has a
large clothing store and manufactures his own goods, and the great
object of insisting upon your company to-day was to tell you that I
will, if you desire it, bring your case to his notice, and if he favors
my suggestions will let you know all about it."
"O--if I could!" came from his overflowing heart. "If I could only do
something! I have always been told that it was no use for me to exert
myself for I was helpless, and I had settled down as far as it was
possible on that supposition."
"But you are not! Your present skill with the needle has its advantages
and in a very short time you would be independent at least. Labor
brings contentment and with it the years would not pass so laggardly."
Phebe had come up behind him and was smoothing his brown curls with her
gentle hand, and reaching up his trembling one he clasped hers tightly
as he asked:
"Phebe, more than sister, can I do this? Will the time ever come when I
shall cease to eat the bread of dependence? Tell me Phebe, for your
words have ever given me strength; am I truly only the long withered
stalk you hold as the emblem of myself?"
"No, Willie! Believe what Mrs. Gaylord has said and grow firm! You
can--you will! I feel it in my heart you 'will go up the stairs' and
leave some at the foot who do not now expect to stay there! I thought of
it to-day and determined not to let you go ahead of me, and so kept
close by your side." She laughed while he warmly pressed the hand he had
been holding.
"You see," interposed Mrs. Gaylord, "Phebe and I have talked a little
about this but I did not mention, even to her, the plans which for more
than two weeks I have been maturing. To-morrow we will go to the city,
Phebe and I, and see what can be done, and if you will come to us on the
following day all can be decided."
It _was_ decided! Mr. Bancroft of Boston would do well by him; take him
into his own home and see that his wants were attended to until he had
become efficient in the business, and then give him a place in his
establishment if he proved himself worthy.
"Worthy?" exclaimed Phebe; "he is noble--he will be all you can
desire!"
"The hearts of young ladies are not always reliable in _business_
relations," replied the gentleman with a mischievous twinkle in his
bright eye. "However, Mrs. Gaylord, upon your maturer judgment I will
try him, for really you have excited in me an interest for the young
man; and I see no reason why he cannot be a master workman. _I_ began
life by coiling my feet under me on the bench, and I could have done it
just as well had they not been incased in No. 9's." He laughed. "His
Rover will be just the thing; he can soon be taught to bring his master
to his work and return to his kennel for protection. And by the way, I
shall be obliged to see that _his_ animal has an 'ordinance' of its own.
They kill dogs here so promiscuously."
"_I_ had thought of that and concluded to set Pompy at work training
another for his use as soon as I return home. You know he is famous at
such work."
Willie received the report of their successful mission in the city
with almost ecstatic joy. "Can it be true?" he thought. There would
be difficulties; any amount of pride must be overcome--shrinking
sensitiveness subdued--but he would try! To have aspirations--anticipations
of success--what more could he desire?
In three days Mrs. Gaylord would go with Willie to his new home and
Phebe was to accompany them.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
"ROSEDALE."
Come with me, gentle reader, to the sunny south, to the land of orange
groves, where the air is sweetest and the sky is bluest; where nature's
lyre does not of necessity get unstrung or lose her summer melodies as
winter breaks in with harsh, discordant notes to jar the ear and chill
the rich, warm blood. Come to the land of flowers, of poetry, of dreams.
Hard seems the fate which thrusts a "serpent into every paradise," in
whose trail death follows, withering up its freshness and throwing a
net-work of decay over its richest beauties. Yet such is the intruder
blighting many homes in the cold regions of the bustling north, as well
as in the clime where the sweet singers of the faded woods delight to
pour out their winter's songs. Alas! that it should be so.
"Why, my Lily-Bell, how faded you look this morning! Worse than the rose
you wore in your hair last night. Now let me wager something. What shall
it be? Ah! my yesterday's letter against your's of yesterday, also, that
I can divine the cause. Shall it be? Ah! that smile! It was like the
morning zephyrs sporting with the withered petals of my 'Lily-Bell.' Let
me kiss back its beauty, or breath some of my exuberance into it, which
seems so worthless in its prodigality," and the lively little lady bent
over the invalid's chair and kissed over and over again the brow of her
companion.
"There! there! Look quickly! Two little rose leaves of unquestionably
pinkish hue are fluttering in close proximity to those lovely dimples.
But they have flitted away again. What a pity that beauty is so
fleeting."
"I should think you would despair, dear Grace, of charming one into life
who has been so long dead. The task would be more congenial to your
taste, I imagine, to roll me up and lay me away in your casket of
precious relics for memory to grow sentimental over in future years. Why
do you not do it, _la Petite_? Own that you are weary, as the rest do,
and thrust me out of sight."
"No, indeed; I have no passion for musty relics. Come, let us away to
the drawing-room. It is nearly time for breakfast."
"Are you aware, cousin mine, of the compliments you have been showering
upon me, 'fading, withering,' etc.? To tell the truth, I am quite
unwilling, under their pressure, to appear before our brilliant guests,
understanding now the full array of blemishes of which I am the
possessor."
"I was only prattling, Lily-Bell. Nothing human could be purer or
sweeter than that face of yours. Let me picture it," and kneeling on the
carpet before her companion, she took a little white hand and pressed it
lovingly in her own.
"No, no; do not call me silly. There, keep that smile. That little mouth
was just made for such glowing sunbeams to play about. How I would like
to tear away those lines of sadness which so mar its exquisite
formation, and bring back the soft tints to those lips. Not that it
would enhance its perfection, but it would denote health of body and
heart. Then those eyes, so dark, deep and fathomless! I cannot look into
their depths without a feeling of purity and holiness stealing into my
soul, as though I had taken a peep into the land of spirits where there
is no sin. What, a tear? Forgive me, darling. I should have known
better. I too often pelt the door of your heart's sepulcher with the
pebbles of my thoughtless volubility. Thank you for that look of
forgiveness. Now let me depart before I sin again. But, just a moment.
Whenever I plant my tripping feet on sacred ground, bid me hush, begone.
Check me, dearest. I want to be your sunbeam, not the east wind that
blows up dark clouds; will you?"
"I will let you act and talk naturally. I like it. If at times you
discover tears, it need not frighten or silence you. They seem as
necessary to my existence as the rain to the summer flowers. Now begone;
_I_ shall go out among the zephyrs awhile that they may freshen up these
'withered petals.' Do not mention me below. Good bye," and Lillian,
kissing her hand to her companion, glided through the open door and away
out of sight.
At the time of which I write there could not be found in all Georgia a
more charming home retreat from the cares and tumults of the bustling
world than the home of the Belmont's.
"Rosedale" was what its name would seem to designate, a garden of roses.
The house was built around three sides of a hollow square in the center
of which a fountain sent up its sparkling jets above the cool twinkling
shadows of the trees which surrounded it, up into the sunlight,
catching its rainbow tints and falling back into the marble basin
beneath, with a cool trickling sound that charmed the weary and
enervated into quiet and repose, lulling the restless spirit into dreams
of future peace and rest. The open side looked towards the north, and as
far as the eye could reach the most charming landscape was extended. A
thoroughly cultivated cotton field was near by, but it wound around to
the right and was lost sight of behind the orange grove. On the left the
white rude huts of the negroes were just discernable. On--on, the
distant hills kept rising, over which the blue sky seemed to hover
lovingly, giving to the bright green fields a darker hue, and to the
little busy river below the terrace, a robe of its own soft color.
The constructor of this beautiful home had been sleeping for many years
where the fir trees nestled together and the purling river sang all day
its rippling song as if to hush to more silent repose the quiet
slumberer. The widow, however, who had never laid aside her weeds, had
well maintained her position. There was no plantation in all that region
more thrifty or prosperous than this. It was a pleasure to visit
Rosedale, particularly now, as Charles, the only son, had returned from
his European tour as reputed heir and proprietor of the beautiful
estate, and of course the spacious drawing-rooms were crowded.
One hour after Lillian had left her chamber she was sitting alone in a
quiet summer house at the foot of the terrace looking dreamily out upon
the landscape, listlessly plucking the roses which drooped about her and
scattering their bright petals on the ground at her feet. Perhaps she
imagined who would look for her there at that hour, still when the sound
of a footstep fell on her ear she started and her pale cheek flushed for
a moment; but when George St. Clair entered she smiled and extended her
hand in welcome. He took it tenderly in his own and seated himself at
her feet.
"You have carpeted the ground for me with rose leaves which these little
hands have wantonly spoiled," he said with his usual gallantry. "O,
Lillian, how cruel you are!"
"Do not George; I want to talk with you! I have spent a sleepless night
trying to summon sufficient resolution for this interview. I feel that
you deserve some share of my confidence at least, and it is sweet to
know that after all this struggling I can give it to you."
"And I shall be glad to receive it, although I have a presentiment that
it is my death doom!"
She bowed her head and her white lips touched his forehead. "I love you,
George, with the purest sisterly affection, and in my poor heart your
sorrows will ever find a sympathetic response. I feel that I shall give
you pain by what I must say, and God knows how gladly I would save you
from it if it was in my power. But bear with me; I have long loved
another! You have surmised it--_I_ now confess it! I was not yet fifteen
when I met and loved Pearl Hamilton. You remember the time I went north
to school? He was a Philadelphian by birth and a nobler, truer heart
never beat! Could you see him George you would not blame me for what I
did! I was a child--a petted, spoiled child! My wishes had never been
disputed and why should they be then? In a very few weeks I became his
wife. Do not look at me so wildly! It is _all_ true--_I am a wife!_"
"Lillian, _why_ have you deceived the world and me so long? Why did you
not tell me this three years ago when I returned from Europe? Had you
done so I would have spared you all of the torment my repeated proffers
of love must have caused; and it might have been had I known the truth
at that time less bitter for me to-day. But I will not chide you." The
young man had risen to his feet while speaking and paced to and fro the
full length of the arbor.
"Come and sit by me," she pleaded; "I have not yet finished." He obeyed.
"It was not _my_ fault, George, that you did not know all at the time,
but let me continue my narrative. It will not detain you long. I was
married, not however without the approbation of my aunt, with whom I
resided. As soon as it was over a sudden fear took possession of me. I
did not dare tell my mother. For the first time in all my life I had
acted without her approval, and now I was fearful of her displeasure. It
came at last. After much persuasion from my husband and friends I told
her all. One bright day when Pearl was absent from home my aunt sent for
me. I obeyed the summons, and there met my mother after a separation of
more than a year. Her greeting was cold, her manner stern and
commanding. It seems that she had been in the city three days, and
during that time had accumulated legal documents sufficient to prove to
_me_, at least, that as neither of us was of age our marriage was null
and void. Her words overpowered me. But I will not picture the scene
that followed. I was a _child_ again obedient to her will. We left the
city before the return of my husband, and I have never seen him since. I
have written many letters, but have received none in return. Only _once_
have I heard that he yet lived. My aunt wrote that he stood very high in
the estimation of the people and remained true to his boyish vows. That
letter was not intended for my eyes, but they saw it, and my heart
responded to his fidelity. Thus to-day you find me what I am. Now, tell
me, George, do you hate me for what I have done? I had not the power to
break away from the injunction laid upon me. My mother said that in time
I would not only regret but forget, my folly, and would thank her for
placing me in a position to marry some one equal to myself. O George,
think of these long years I have carried this aching, desolate heart. My
whole being has seemed enervated. But this fresh proffer of your love
has aroused me. I _am_ a _woman_, and there is _injustice_ in all this.
_You_ are good and noble; for this reason I have confided in you,
breathed into your ear words that were never before spoke by me."
"Thank you! But, Lillian, what proof has your aunt that _he_ remains
true to his early vows? Do you think _any_ earthly power could keep _me_
from you were you _my_ wife? And yet you tell me that you have not
received one answer to your many letters."
"Did I not also tell you that there was _injustice_ in all this? And
more--I am fully convinced that there has been and _now is_ a _criminal_
wrong being enacted of which _I_ am the subject."
"It _cannot_ be! O Lillian! henceforth I am your friend and your
brother. Command me at all times, and I am your obedient servant.
Henceforth my country only shall be my bride. I will wed her with good
faith. I will suffer, I will die for her. But you will be my sister,
Lillian. Call me _Brother_. Let that appellation, at least, fall from
those sweet lips like the refreshing dew, for I feel that my heart is
withering, and then I must go. I came to bid you farewell. New duties
are calling me, and I am glad that it is so."
"God bless you, my brother," came like low, plaintiff music to his ear.
For one moment he held her close to his heart, and gazed into the
beautiful eyes where a world of love and suffering lay hidden; then
imprinting a kiss upon her fair cheek fled from her presence. He was
gone.
For a long time Lillian sat like one in a dream. Could it be? Had the
friend of so many years really spoken the last farewell? How much she
had prized his love; his demonstrations of tenderness; and now they were
to be hers no more. How much it had cost her to sever this sparkling
chain of gold which the heart of woman ever covets, God only knows. But
the work had been accomplished at last, and the thought brought more of
relief with it than pain after all. She had pondered it so long and
shrank from its performance until the burden of her coming duty pressed
heavily upon her; but it was lifted now, and a sense of peace stole into
her mind as she realized the truth. Then there came a wave of
apprehension that suddenly dashed its murky waters over her. "What would
her mother say?" She had so long been the submissive _child_ in her
strength and power that it was a marvel _how_ she had dared to loosen
herself from them or act for once upon her own responsibility. There was
one reason why that mother had so insisted upon her wedding George St.
Clair, but the daughter had never been able to obtain it from her.
"But I could _not_--O I could not," she exclaimed, rising and standing
in the door way of the arbor as she looked away down the road where her
lover had ridden at full speed, taking with him, as she well knew, an
aching heart, but one not more wretched than her own.
Raphael made the transfiguration a subject for his pencil, but died
before it was finished, and how many of us will do the same? We begin
life with glowing tints, but the sombre colors are demanded. We lay
aside the brush as incapable of the task, and other hands interfere to
spoil its designs or destroy the first intention altogether. Lillian's
life had opened with a few glowing outlines, but a masterly hand had
changed the subject, and the canvas was yet to receive its filling up,
and God was marking the designs upon it for her; and, discovering this,
she bowed her head with reverential awe before the solemn realization,
and with a firmer and steadier step than had been hers for years, she
walked to the house and entered her own room.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
HEART'S SECRETS REVEALED AND UNREVEALED.
"He--he--he! Didn't Massa George make Spit-fire fly, tho'? Gorry!
'specks them bobolishenis 'll have to take it now, no 'stake.
He--he--he!"
"O you get out. What you talk 'bout bobolishenis anyhow? Think you're
mighty smart nigger, don't ye? It's my opinion ye don't know
nothin'--that's all." And Aunt Lizzy moved away with the air of one who
did understand and utterly despised one who was not as fortunate as
herself, as the toss of her lofty turban perfectly demonstrated.
"'Specks old woman, ye'd jus' like to know all what dis nig' duz.
'Mighty smart! He--he--he! Gals ain't 'speeted to know nothin' no how,"
and Pete, who was the especial favorite of his young master, turned away
from his unappreciative auditor with all the dignity supposed to have
been handed over to him with the last suit of young massa's cast-off
clothing in which he was pompously arrayed.
Just then the soft folds of a white dress peeped out from behind the
foliage of the "Prairie Queen," which scrambled about in native
abandonment everywhere over the corridor on one side of the moss-covered
terrace. Pete saw it as it waved in the noonday breeze, which was
scarcely sufficient to move a leaf or flower, so stealthily it came
ladened with its burden of perfume. Discovering that some one was so
near, the astonished slave was about to retreat in much confusion, when
Grace Stanley stepped from behind the massive vine and stood before him.
Evidently there had been tears in her brilliant eyes that were unused to
weeping, but they had succeeded only in leaving transparent shadows over
their brightness. Sad traces, to be sure, of what had been, as well as
presentiments of what might be. Her soft cheek wore a deeper tint than
was usual to it, and her long lashes drooped lower, casting a sombre
shade beneath them, and that was all. Yet the little heart, all unused
to sorrow, throbbed beneath the pure white bodice with a wound it
seemingly had not the power to bind up. She had come to Rosedale as free
and joyous as the birds that flitted among the orange blossoms where the
zephyrs were then gathering their sweets, and the future over which her
feet would gladly tread decked with the brightest and sweetest flowers,
among which the trailing serpent had never for a moment showed his
treacherous head; but she had found that the blossom of hope will wither
and the golden sunshine fade; and this consciousness had pierced her
sensitive nature as a cruel dart, and the pain had made her cheek
tear-stained and brought shadows of disappointment. She had met George
St. Clair two years before her present visit, and thought him the most
noble and true of all his sex, and who can tell of the dreams that came
uninvited into her nightly visions as well as in her peaceful day
reveries? Can you, gentle reader? There comes a day to us all when the
kaleidoscope of every heart's experience gives a sudden turn as it
presents to view more complex minglings of brilliant colors and
perplexing designs than has ever been seen in any previous whirl, weird
fancies through which we are all looking.
Grace Stanley had been watching their ever changing glow until the
brilliant tints had imprinted their rosy hues over every hope and
promise of her life; but on this very morning there had been another
turn, and the sombre shades were now uppermost. He loved "Lily-Bell,"
and had flown from her presence a rejected lover, but without one word
of farewell to her. "My country shall henceforth be my bride," she had
heard him say, and who could tell what the terrible war might bring to
them all. He was gone, and this fact alone was sufficient to sadden her
future, still "no one shall know it," she thought as she walked across
the garden and stepped upon the moss-covered terrace. "This hour shall
be covered from sight forever, even from myself." She had grown calm as
she stood there listening to the conversation just outside, and with a
faint smile flitting among the sombre tints of sadness that were
retreating from her pretty face, she bluntly asked the bewildered Pete--
"What did I hear you say about Master George?"
She had drawn more closely the thick veil of indifference, and suddenly
her face was wreathed in smiles as she stood there looking into the
dark, perplexed visage of the scared negro boy; just as flowers will
grow and thrive in beauty on the graves where our idols lie buried.
"O nothin', Miss Grace--nothin', nothin' at all. But he did make
Spit-fire look buful, sartin, sure. _Gorry!_ didn't she _go_, tho'?
Dat's all, Miss Grace, sure dat's all."
"I thought I heard you say something about his going to shoot the
abolitionists, Pete, was I mistaken? Do you know what they are?"
"Don't know nothin', Miss Grace, sartin. 'Spects dey be somethin' what
hunts a nigger mighty sharp, 'cause I heard Massa Charles say he'll pop
'em over--dat's all, young missus, sartin, sure, dat's all."
"Well, Pete, let me tell you something. In my opinion you will be wiser
than you are now, and that before many years; only keep your eyes open."
"Neber you mind, Miss Gracy. Dis nig' 'll keep his eyes peeled, dat's
what he will."
Grace Stanley passed leisurely into the hall which ran through the main
building leading to the open court beyond where the fountain was
throwing its cool, sparkling jets into the sunshine. She did not heed
it, however, but passed on up the broad winding stairway, meeting no one
on the way as she ascended to the hall above. The sun had nearly reached
his meridian glory, and the oppressive heat had as usual driven the
inmates of that elegant home to their shaded retreats, where in
comfortable deshabille they lounged on beds and sofas drawn up by the
open windows, that perchance they might catch some stray breeze that
would flit up from the orange groves or come from the woodland far away
on the hill side.
"Grace," called a sweet voice through the half-open door of Lillian's
room, "I thought it was your light step I heard on the stairs. Come in
here, darling. See how nice and cool it is." Grace obeyed, but Lillian
did not notice the sombre shadows that were playing over the usually
sunny face of her cousin, so absorbed was she with the hovering glooms
that had fallen from her own passing clouds, and so she continued,
pleasantly: "Perhaps you would like to make yourself a little more
comfortable? Put on this wrapper, dear, and then come and sit by me,
will you? I want to talk a little."
This was just what her companion did not care to do; still, remembering
that her mission to Rosedale was to cheer by her lively mirth and
vivacity her drooping cousin, she hastened to obey. Yet how was she to
accomplish her task? Only three weeks had passed since her arrival, yet
weeks so heavy with their weight of circumstance that her very soul
seemed pressed down beneath their weight. Where now was her native
joyousness? The cheering powers she was expected to impart to others?
She must recall them. Yet she was chilled and oppressed; what was she to
do? Act. Her retreating volubility could only be summoned again to its
post through action, and it _must_ be done!
"What a sweet little bouquet," she exclaimed, arousing herself to her
work. "A delicate spray of jesamine, a few tiny rose-buds and geranium
leaves. Do you know that I never could have done that? There is
something so exquisite in their arrangement. Somehow as a whole they
send an impressive appeal to the inner senses, my 'Lily-Bell.' There
must be such a bubbling fountain of poesy in a soul like yours. Teach
me, dear cousin, to be like you." And the pensive speaker dropped upon
the floor at the feet of Lillian, where she most delighted to sit, and
drooping her head wearily upon her companion's knee.
Both were silent. One heart had that morning drawn back the rusty bolt
on the door of its inner chamber and rejoiced to find itself strong
enough to drive out at last, its long imprisoned secret of gloom that
had made it so wretched through the revolving changes of many years,
while the other was even then busy with the fastenings of the secret
closet where the unsightly skeleton of her lost love was to be hidden
from the world, from herself. Yet so doing might eat the bloom from her
cheek and the joy from her buoyant nature. Why did she wish to be like
Lillian? She had not asked even her aching heart this question, but all
unconsciously to herself a response came up from the hidden recesses of
her soul where a fresh grave had been dug by trembling hands and into it
a dead hope had been lowered and closely covered, while the damp earth
was trodden down hard about it, and the low whisper said, "If like her,
this poor heart to-day would not be draped with its sombre emblems of
bereavement." To be as she was, to possess the power to win. O the poor
throbbing hearts all over the world that must keep on through the years
with their wounds and pains, for in them are many graves hidden away
among the cypress shades, where the passer-by can never spy them out;
but the eye of the eternal one sees them all, and at every burial the
tear of sympathy mingles with the liquid drops of bereavement that must
fall on the stone at the mouth of the sepulcher which by and by will be
rolled away at His command.
Lillian aroused herself after a long silence.
"You give me more praise, darling, than I deserve," she said. "I am as
incapable as yourself in performing these little touches of the fine
arts which you see every day on my table. Black Tezzie can alone teach
you the mysteries of a skill she so fortunately possesses. Do not look
so incredulous, or I shall be obliged to prove it to you," she smiled.
"I am not unbelieving, sweet Lily-Bell," she answered, "but I confess
that you have surprised me. I should sooner have suspected either of the
other servants of such a gift as that ungainly biped," Grace laughed,
but Lillian remained silent.
"This only proves that it is sometimes impossible to read the soul from
the outside, my pretty cousin. I learned long ago that there was more
beauty and a brighter reflection of heavenly glory shut up in that ebony
casket, so unprepossessing in its general make-up, than in half the more
graceful and elegant ones. But perhaps you are among the number who
believe that these dark forms we see every day have no souls within
them?"
"Why, Lily-Bell! what a suspicion. Still, how am I supposed to have any
knowledge regarding the matter, seeing I have never dissected one of
them?"
A gesture of impatience followed this remark, but her companion did not
appear to notice it, for she continued:
"I believe that Old Auntie has as pure and white a soul as ever
inhabited an earthly tenement. I have laid my head on her bosom with a
deeper sense of rest than it was possible for me to obtain elsewhere.
Her prayers that have gone up so continually for 'de poor wee lamb' have
imparted more real comfort and hope to this tempest-tossed soul of mine
than any that could have ascended from consecrated temples. No soul?
What could I ever have done without her in this life? And my
anticipations regarding the brighter one to follow are stronger to-day
because of her."
Grace Stanley arose from her seat and walked to the window, while her
companion did not fail to perceive that a cloud had risen and was
spreading itself over her features. Not wishing to press the subject
further, she remarked calmly:
"Some of our company are leaving to-day, and George St. Clair wished me
to hand over to you his adieus, as he departed in great haste,
regretting the fact that he was not able to meet you again."
At the first sound of her voice Grace had returned to her seat upon the
carpet, and Lillian, taking the sweet face between her little hands,
gazed tenderly into it, as she continued:
"You will pardon me, darling cousin, I know, but did you not hear our
conversation in the rose arbor, at the foot of the lower terrace, two
hours ago?"
The dimples stole out of the cheeks the soft, white hands of the
interrogator was pressing so lovingly, and the light joyousness in her
bright, sparkling eyes became dimmed, while a veil of crimson spread
itself over it all. The head bowed low as it released itself from its
imprisonment, and tears that had long been struggling to be free came
now unrestrainedly.
"I do not chide you, darling; I knew you were not far away, for I had
espied a portion of your white dress fluttering through a crevice of
the vine outside of the trestle-work, and rejoiced that it was so."
"I would not have remained, Lillian, had not my dress become so
entangled that I could not loosen it without revealing my presence.
Believe me, cousin, I was not a willing listener. You will not doubt
this?"
"Certainly not; and, darling, let me assure you that my heart is lighter
for the circumstance, for we are confidants now. I have had such a
longing to tell you all; but this one secret had become habitual to me.
The very thought of revealing it filled me with a nervous horror. But it
is over now, and by and by I want to impart to your tender sympathies
half of the burden I have so long carried. You do not know how
unendurable its weight has become. O Grace, it is dreadful to be obliged
to endure for years the pains of a wounded heart. To feel its throbbings
day after day without the power to claim a panacea from another's love."
Grace started.
"It must be true," she thought, "and am I to thus endure?"
Ah! little did she know how the first deep wounds, that seemingly "will
never heal," can be soothed in some hearts, while in others no power can
assuage the pain. Grace Stanley could forget, for the sunshine of her
nature was salutary.
At this juncture Tezzie appeared in the doorway, and announced that
"Missus wanted do young ladies to dress fine for dinner, for Massa
Charles was coming back wid a strange gemman."
"Very well, we will be ready in good time," replied Lillian. "Now go and
call Agnes to arrange my hair."
The dark, dumpy figure disappeared from sight, and Lillian, bowing her
head, kissed again the pure white forehead of her companion.
"To-morrow, dear, I want your little heart to beat in sympathy with my
own. Good by," and Grace left the room.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE MOTHER'S CURSE.
"There, Agnes, you may go now. How do you like my looks? Will I do to
appear before the the strange gentleman?"
"Look, Miss Lily? Why you look like the buful cloud I seed lyin' so soft
and still in de sunshine, honey. But I like the white dress more, for
den you look just like de angels, waiting for de wings."
"That will do. You have imagination sufficient for a poet, Agnes, but
you may go now."
She smiled as she waved her hand towards the door with a delicate
movement, and she was alone. Only a moment, however, for the faithful
servant had just disappeared when the door reopened and Mrs. Belmont
entered the apartment. She was still graceful and queenly in her
bearing, and her long black dress swept the rich carpet with an
imperious air. Time had been very gentle with that fair face, touching
lightly her brow with his unwelcome traces, neither quenching the fire
in her dark eyes nor dulling the lustre of her glossy hair. Yet her
regal head had a habit of drooping, as if weary of its weight of
thought, and her lips became more and more compressed as their color
faded and lines of anxious care grew deeper as the years rolled by.
"I came to tell you that there was to be company at dinner."
"Not before? I understood Tezzie to say there would be a stranger here
at lunch."
"It may be so; Charles is to bring home a college friend, I believe."
This would have been very unsatisfactory under some circumstances, but
Lillian was not curious. As her mother entered the room she discovered
that strange, wild light in her eyes which she had seen there many times
before, and well knew that beneath it a hidden fire was raging. Mrs.
Belmont had not once looked into the face of her daughter, but had
seated herself by the open window, her elbow on the heavy frame-work,
while her head rested wearily upon her hand. A soft, warm breeze came
softly and caressed her with its perfumed wings, fanning her heated
brow, and whispering all the time the sweetest words of purity and peace
through the interwoven branches of the luxurious vine outside. In her
heart, however, were discordant notes to which she was listening, having
no ear for other sounds, were they ever so melodious.
"Lillian," she said, at last, "did you reject George St. Clair this
morning?"
"I did, Mother."
"You did?"
"Yes, I did."
The daughter spoke quietly and calmly, but Mrs. Belmont arose hurriedly
from the chair and stood before her.
Lillian did not quail before the burning look which was fixed upon her,
but returned it with a determined gaze, out of which pity and filial
affection beamed their gentle rays.
"Child! child! this must not--cannot be! I command you to recall him. It
is not too late. He loves you, and would, without doubt, overlook this
unparalleled freak of foolishness in which you have been so
unaccountably indulging. Recall him, Lillian; your whole future
happiness depends upon it."
"You are mistaken, Mother; I never could have been happy had I accepted
that true, noble heart, and given in exchange my poor broken and divided
one, and certainly he never could have taken me into his great love
after knowing me as I am, which he surely must have done, or I, at
least, would have been eternally wretched."
"You did not tell him?" was the quick inquiry.
"I told him that _I was a wife_. That my heart was forever bound up in
those matrimonial vows still unsevered, and that I loved him as a
brother, and no more."
"You are mad! a fool! You know not what you do," and trembling with
excitement she sank back on the chair from which she had risen.
Lillian did not speak or move, but tears came welling up through the
freshly opened wounds in her poor heart, and filled her large pensive
eyes with their bitter moisture.
Again the mother spoke.
"I feel disposed, just now, to enlighten you a little in regard to your
future prospects if you persist in this silly sentimental mood, which
you seem to think so becoming! I have striven hard to keep it from you
and your brother for many years, and to surround you with every luxury
your inherited station really demanded. More than this, I have planned,
wrought, and guided with true maternal skill and instinct the fortunes
of you both in such a manner that you might, if you would, ever retain
your enviable position in the social world, for which I have exerted
myself to fit you."
"I do not understand you, Mother. Be merciful and enlighten me, as you
offered to do."
"Yes, I will; but you will not find much mercy in it. Know, then, that
we are not owners of this beautiful estate. On the contrary, it was
mortgaged to the father of George St. Clair by your own father some time
before his death. Think, if you can, of the long years of toil I have
experienced since that time, and ask if you are right in pulling down
about our heads the whole structure of prosperity and affluence that I
have been so long in building."
"I discern your intricate plans, my Mother, and pity you."
"Pity me? Do you then persist in your folly? I have proven to you then
that it is in your power to avert this ruin! Mr. St. Clair told me not
long since that Rosedale would eventually belong to his son, and he was
happy to feel quite sure that my daughter would share it with him. I
cannot much longer keep the Gorgon from devouring us! All we can then
call our own will be the negroes, and these, without doubt, will
depreciate much in value if the anticipated war of the North really
comes upon us! Decide Lillian! Tell me that you will accede to my wishes
in recalling George St. Clair! That northern mud-sill has, without
doubt, long before this returned to his native element. He is dead to
you--as wholly, truly so as though you had never been guilty of so great
an indiscretion!" Lillian started to her feet.
"Mother, one question! Did you not receive a letter from my aunt in
Philadelphia not many months ago saying that my husband had risen high
in the estimation of the people and was true to his early vows? Has that
information ever been contradicted? I read in the pallor of your face
that it has not! His heart beats as truly for me to-day as it did
sixteen years ago--and I am _his wife_! He is the father of my sweet
Lily-bud, and this bond can never be severed! No, no! I cannot, I _will
not_, wed another!"
"_The curse of the heart-broken then rest upon you!_" She had moved away
with rapid steps while speaking, and although Lillian reached out her
hand imploringly the stately figure disappeared through the open door. O
the speechless agony of the next hour! O the suffering in that lonely,
sad, luxurious chamber! All the misery of her eventful life came rushing
over her! Spectral thoughts, that she had supposed were long since
banished forever, haunted her brain! How vivid and real they now
appeared in this new darkness. Then the future! Where was the black hand
of destiny to lead her? Even now she could see it reaching out its bony
fingers from among the mysteries that enveloped her hidden path! The
thick folds of an interminable gloom seemed to have fallen about her,
and everywhere she beheld that "mother's curse" written in letters of
fire! A rap was heard on the door and she arose mechanically and turned
the key. Soon the sound of a heavy tread was heard along the hall--then
down the winding staircase and lost in the distance. It was Tezzie, and
she was alone again! By and by the echoes of music and laughter came
floating up through the open window and mingled harshly with the
dreariness which pervaded that silent chamber! There was a merry group
in the spacious drawing-room before the dinner hour arrived. Where was
the wretched mother? Could it be that those rigid features which
disappointment, consternation and rage had blanched with their inhuman
concoctions was covered with a mask of conviviality and pleasure?
Lillian wept! It was well that tears came at last or the poor brain
would have become parched with the fever of its wild despair! The
sunshine at last departed from the window and night let down its black,
silken curtains around a weary tumultuous world. O, how many hearts sink
helplessly beneath their weight of woe, crushing under it the joy from
the outside world with its wealth of pomp and gaiety! Yet there are
those who, when the day departs, throw aside the sackcloth with which
they hide their misery and come with all their sorrows to the feet of
Him whose smiles alone have the power to dispel their gloom. Lillian did
not know how to pray! In all her years of perplexity and doubt she had
not reached out her hand to the only one who could have led her safely
out of it all. Now her heart called for something it had not yet
divined, but the perplexed soul was wistfully gazing upward through the
thick clouds that drooped so closely about her, and a feeble wail issued
from beneath the sombre darkness. Another low tap was heard on the door
which again aroused her. There had been many during the hours of her
self-imprisonment, but she had not heeded them. However, a low, sweet
voice penetrated her solitude and fell with soothing cadence upon her
ear.
"It's Auntie, honey--open the door, poor lamb"; and Lillian's quick step
revealed the willingness with which she complied. The faithful old slave
came in and the door was relocked.
"What fo' you killin' yo'self here all alone, honey? I know'd dar was
trouble all day and I just been askin' de good Lord to take care of you;
but I did want to come and see if he'd done it--poo' lamb!" Aunt Vina
had drawn her chair close to the side of Lillian, and the weary head
with its heavy weight of sorrow had fallen upon the shoulder of her
faithful friend. "Dar--bress you honey--cry all yo' trouble out. Dat's
de way de bressed Lord helps us to get rid on 'em. By an' by sweet lamb
He'll wipe 'em all away; den ye'll hab no mo' sorrow, honey, bress de
Lord!"
"But I have now more than I can bear! You don't know what a terrible
load I am being crushed beneath!"
"I know a good deal, chile. Missus told me to-day dat you wouldn't marry
Massa St. Clair, and she 'spects you was pinin' at somethin' she said! I
axed her if I might come and see you and she didn't care, but wanted I
should make you ''bey yo' mudder'; now de Lord knows better dan she do."
"Did she tell you that she cursed me? O--Auntie! I could bear all the
rest, even the miserable future she has pictured to me; but it is
dreadful to carry through life the terrible burden of a mother's curse."
"Neber you min', honey; de Lord'll pay no 'tention to such cussin', an'
it won't hurt ye a bit, if ye don't keep thinkin' on it. Why can't ye
tell Him all about it, poor chile, den t'row it all away? He'll take
good care ob it, sure, and it won't hurt you."
"Do you believe, Aunt Vina, that God cares anything about me? Would He
listen if I should ask Him to take my cause into His hands?"
"Sartin He would, honey. He lubs you ten times mo' dan Old Auntie, and
wouldn't she take ebery bit ob it if she could?"
The rough hand of the slave woman touched with soft caress the
tear-stained cheek that was resting so near her own, and the cheering
words fell into her aching heart with a soothing influence.
"Pray for me, Auntie, and I will try to do as you have bidden. The road
is very dark and gloomy where my faltering feet are standing, but it may
be as you say, that God will drive it all away."
"O bress de Lord, bress de Lord! Auntie knows ye'll fin' it. Never mind
nothin', go tell Him eberythin', and see how de dark will all go 'way.
Dar, honey; old Vina'll go and get ye a good cup o' tea, and bring in de
lamp and make it more cheery like. De good Lord'll take care ob de
lamb!"
"Where is Grace?" was the plaintive query.
"O Miss Grace, she's 'most crazy 'bout you. I seed her alone in de
little arbor cryin' dreadful awhile ago; but den she puts 'em 'way
quick, and her pretty face looks all happy agin. She was singin' at de
pianner when I come up."
"Tell her, Auntie, not to come to me until to-morrow. I wish to be left
alone to-night. You may bring me a cup of tea, then tell Agnes that I
shall not want her," was the pleading wail of the sorrowing heart as the
slave woman disappeared on her errand of love and tenderness.
Fold thy wings lovingly over the bowed form of the humble suppliant, O
angel of pity, for the Father hears the cry of his suffering children;
not one ever pleaded in vain, and Lillian prayed!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "GIVE ME THAT PAPER." (See page 153).]
CHAPTER XIV.
THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.
It was not until late the next day that Lillian granted the oft repeated
request of her cousin to be allowed to come to her, and not a moment was
lost ere the two friends were together.
"It was cruel in you, my sweet Lillian, to banish me so long, but how
ill you look," and Grace Stanley clasped her arms about the dear form
and kissed the pale cheek tenderly.
"You are mistaken, pretty cousin, in my general appearance, for I have
not been so well in a long time. In fact, your 'poor despondent cousin'
is almost happy to-day."
Lillian was looking into the face of her companion while her pure liquid
eyes were overflowing with the new-found joy that was filling her heart.
"I have been troubled, Grace. Yesterday a heavy wave rolled over me,
that came near burying your 'Lily-Bell' beneath it. But it has passed
on, and I was left out of the tempest, and a hand reached out to hold me
as I was going down beneath the roaring billows. At any rate I am
standing firm to-day, and have no fears of winds or storms. Somehow I
feel secure in the belief that I shall be shielded and brought through
it all," and the fair head drooped for awhile on her hand, and the
joyful tears came and baptised afresh her trembling new-born hope.
Grace had no word of trust to lay on the altar of consecration, and
could only sit at the feet of her who was casting her all upon it, and
be silent.
"Forgive me cousin, my heart and thoughts have been straying. I wanted
to talk with you that I might, if possible, break the last cord that
binds me so tenaciously to the dark scenes of the past that I would bury
forever."
"Are you able, Lillian, to bear the
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