Holmes_West_Lawn.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
DORA S DIARY.
" BEECITWOOD, June 12th, )
11 o clock P.M. J
|T last, dear old book, repository of all my secret
thoughts and feelings, I ana free to come to you
once more, and talk to you as I can talk to no
one else. Daisy is asleep in her crib after a longer strug
gle than usual, for the little elf seemed to have a suspi
cion that to-morrow night some other voice than mine
would sing her lullaby. Bertie, too, the darling, cried
himself to sleep because I was going away, while the
other children manifested in various ways their sorrow
at my projected departure. Bless them all, how I do
love children, and hope if I am ever married, I may
have at least a dozen ; though if twelve would make me
twice as faded and sickly, and, and, yes, I will say it,
as peevish as Margaret s six have made her, I should
rather be excused. But what nonsense to be written by
8 DOHA S DIARY.
me, Dora Freeman, spinster, aged twenty-eight, the
Beechwood gossips said when the new minister went
home with me from the sewing society. But they were
mistaken, for if the family Bible is to be trusted, I was
only twenty-five last Christmas, and I don t believe I
look as old as that."
Here there was a break in the diary, while Dora
glanced in the mirror at a graceful little figure, with
sloping shoulders and white neck, surmounted by a well
shaped head with masses of reddish-brown hair, waving
just enough to suggest an idea of the curls into which it
might be easily coaxed ; low forehead ; piquant nose,
with an undeniable curve which ill-natured people call a
turn-up ; bright, honest eyes of reddish-brown, like the
hair ; mouth which did not look as if it had ever said a
disagreeable thing ; rows of white, even teeth, with com
plexion remarkable for nothing except that it was nat
ural, and just now a shade or two paler than usual, be
cause its owner was weary with the months and years of
/are which had fallen on her youthful shoulders.
This was the picture Dora saw, and nodding to the
tout ensemble a little approving nod, and pushing behind
her ears the heavy braids of hair to see if the style were
becoming, as somebody once had told her, she resumed
her pen and diary, as follows :
" Where was I when vanity stopped me for an in
spection of myself? Oh, I know; I had been writing
DORAS DIART. 9
things about being married, for which I ought to blush,
and through which I put my pen, so But there s
what I said of Margaret ; I ll let that stand, for she is
peevish and cross, and it s a relief to tell it somewhere.
Poor Margaret ! I cannot help pitying her when I look
at her now, and remember what she used to be at the
dear old home, so beautiful, so petted, and admired.
Ah me ! that was twelve years ago, and I was a little
girl when Margaret was married, and we danced on the
lawn in the soft September sunlight, with papa looking
on, so happy and so proud ; and then the bonfires they
kindled and the bells they rang at nightfall in honor of
the bride, Mrs. John Russell, Esquire. Alas ! when
next on a week day that bell was rung, it tolled for my
dear lost father, who died with apoplexy, and left his
affairs all in confusion, his property, which was reputed
so great, all mortgaged, and I a little beggar. Shall I
ever forget John Russell s kindness when, hurrying home
from Europe, he came to me at once and said I should
be his daughter, and should live with him and Margaret
at Beech wood, where we came eleven years ago this very
June, Margaret a splendid-looking woman, who would
not wear black because her bridal dresses were so much
more becoming ; and I a timid, awkward girl of fourteen,
who cried so much for the dear father gone, and the old
homestead sold, that people said I looked and acted
older than my sister, the stylish Mrs. Russell. How
10 DORA 1 8 DIAliY.
glad I was when in the autumn Johnnie was born and
Margaret left him so much with me, for in my love for
him I forgot to mourn for father, and came to think of
him as safe in heaven, where mother went when I was
ten days old. Then those three delightful years at
school, when I roomed with sweet Mattie Reed, whom I
am going to-morrow to visit. No matter if there were
three babies here instead of one when I came home ; and
it was very wicked in me to feel annoyed, because I was
so often expected to see that nurse did her duty, or in
fact turn nurse myself to the wee little things. I cannot
say that I was glad when Benny came, for with the ad
vent of each child, Margaret grew more delicate, more
helpless, and more, I wonder if it is bad to say it,
more fault-finding with her husband, who, though the
very best man in the world, is not like, like, well, say
like Dr. West."
Here the pen made three heavy strokes through that
name, completely erasing it, after which it continued :
" I cannot tell why I should bring him up as a com
parison, when I do not like him at all, even if the whole
village of Beech wood is running mad about him, I
mean the old people, not the young, who sneer at him
and call him stingy. If there s anything I hate, it s
penuriousness, which holds so fast to a three-cent piece
and hugs a battered sixpence. Don t I remember our
fair last winter for the benefit of the church, and how
DORA S DIARY. \\
the girls, without the slightest reason for doing so, said
to me, Now, when Dr. West comes in, you take pos
session of him. You are just the one. He thinks more
of you than of all of us together. You can sell him that
dressing-gown and slippers. Ask fifteen at first, and if
he demurs, fall to ten. They were both given, so we
shall not lose. Tell him, if necessary, how shabby his
present gown and slippers are looking, and how the
ladies talk about it.
" I did not believe he would come directly to my
table, and, I think now, the crowd must have pushed
him there, for come he did, looking so pleasant and kind,
and speaking so gently when he said he hoped we should
realize a large sum, and wished so much he could help us
more. Of course, the gown and slippers were thrust
upon his notice, so cheap, only fifteen dollars ; and, of
course, he declined, saying, sotto voce :
" I would gladly buy them for your sake, if I could,
but I cannot afford it.
" Then I fell to twelve, then to ten, and finally to
eight, but he held out firmly, notwithstanding that I told
him how forlorn he looked in his old ones, patched and
tattered as they were. I could see a flush on his face,
but he only laughed, and said he must get a wife to mend
his things. It was surely my evil genius which prompted
me to retort in a pert, contemptuous tone :
" ( TJmph ! few ladies are insane enough to marry stingy
12 DORA 8 DIARY.
old bachelors, who would quarrel about the pip
money !
" I shall never forget how white he grew, or ho\\
quickly his hand went into his pocket, as if in quest of
his purse ; but it was withdrawn without it, just as that
detestable Dr. Colby came simpering along, smelling of
cologne, and musk, and brandy. I knew, to a certainty,
that he did not pay his board bills, and yet I felt goaded
into asking him to become an example of generosity to
Dr. "West, and buy the gown and slippers. I d take it
as a personal favor, I said, putting into my hateful eyes
as much flattery as I possibly could ; and he bought
them, paying fifteen dollars right before Dr. West, who
said softly, sadly like:
" I m glad you have found a purchaser. I did not
wish you to be disappointed ; and then he walked
away, while that Colby paraded his dressing-gown and
slippers until I hated the sight of them, and could have
cried with vexation.
" Still, when later in the evening Dr. West came back
and asked me to go with him for ice-cream, I answered
saucily :
" Thank you ; I can t leave ; and besides, I would not
for the world put you to so much expense !
" If he was white before, he was livid now, and he has
never appeared natural since. I wish he knew how
many times I have cried over that affair, and how I de-
DORAS DIAR7. 13
test that pert young Colby, who never has a patient, and
who called and called at Beechwood until Mrs. Mark-
ham, across the way, sent in to ask who was so very sick.
After that I took good care to be engaged whenever I
heard his ring. Dr. West, I wonder why I will per
sist in writing his name when I really do not care for
him in the least ; that is, care as girls sometimes care
for fine-looking men, with good education, good morals,
good manners, and a good profession. If I could rid
myself of the idea that he was stingy, I might tolerate
him ; but of course he s stingy, or why does he wear so
shabby a coat and hat, and why does he never mingle in
any of the rides and picnics where money is a necessary in
gredient ? Here he s been in Beechwood three, yes, most
four years, getting two-thirds of the practice, even if he
is a homceopathist. I ve heard that he gives liberally to
the church, and he attends the extreme poor for nothing.
So there is some good in him. I wonder if he ll come
to say good-by. I presume not, or he would have re
served that package sent by Johnnie, and brought it
himself instead. It is marked Mrs. David West, Mor-
risville. Who in the world can Mrs. David West be ?
I did not know he ever saw Morrisville, and I am sure
he came from Boston. There s the bell for midnight. I
have written the whole hour, and all of Doctor West,
except the ill-natured things I said of Margaret, and for
which I am sorry. Poor Madge, as Brother John calls
14: DORA S DIARY.
her, she s sick and tired, and cannot help being a little
fretful, while I, who never had an ache or pain, can help
blaming her, and I will. I m sorry, Sister Maggie, for
what I have written, about you, and humbly ask your
pardon."
CHAPTER II.
AUTHOR S JOURNAL.
(JT lacked ten minutes of car-time, and the omni
bus-driver was growing impatient and tired of
waiting for his passenger, when a noisy group
appeared upon the piazza : Mrs. Squire Russell, pale,
languid, drooping as usual, with a profusion of long
light curls falling in her eyes, and giving to her faded
face the appearance of a poodle dog ; Mr. Squire Rus
sell, short, fat, hen-pecked, but very good-looking withal,
and some half dozen little Russells, clinging to and jump
ing upon che young lady, whom we recognize at once as
Dora, our heroine.
" You won t stay long, even if Mrs. Randall does
urge you," said Mrs. Russell, in a half-complaining tone as
she drew together her white wrapper, and leaned wearily
against a pillar of the piazza. " You know I can t do
anything with the children, and the hot weather makes
me so miserable. I shall expect you in two weeks."
" Two weeks, Madge ! are you crazy ? " said the
Squire s good-humored voice. " Dora has not been from
home in ages, while you have almost made the tour of
the Western Continent. She shall stay as long as she
16 AUTHORS JOURNAL.
likes, and get some color in her face. She used to be
rosier than she is now, and it all comes of her being shut
up so close with the children."
"T think it is very unkind in you, Mr. Russell, to
speak as if I was the worst sister in the world, and the
most exacting. I am sure Dora don t think so. Didn t
she go with us to Newport last summer, and wasn t she
more than once called the belle of the Ocean House ? "
John gave a queer kind of whistle, while Dora in
voluntarily drew a long breath as she remembered the
dreary time she had passed at the Ocean House, looking
after three nurses, six children, and her sister Margaret,
whose rooms were on the third floor, and to whom she
had acted the part of waiting-maid in general. But her
thoughts were suddenly brought back from Newport by
Margaret s next remai-k :
" You needn t charge the loss of her roses to me
either, John. No one can expect to be young-looking
forever, and you must remember Dora has passed the
bloom of youth. She s in her twenty-sixth year."
" Twenty-sixth year ! Thunder ! that s nothing," and
Squire Russell tossed up in the air the little Daisy crawl
ing at his feet, while Johnnie, the ten-year old boy,
roared out :
" Aunt Dora ain t old. She s real young and pretty,
and so Dr. West told Miss Markham that time she
counted on her fingers, and said, so spiteful like : STes,
AUTHORS JOURNAL. 17
Miss Freeman is full thirty. Why, they ve been here
eleven years, and she must have been nineteen or twenty
when she came, for she was quite as big as she is now,
and looked as old. Yes, she s too old for the new min
ister, Mr. Kelley. I was so mad I could have knocked
her, and I did throw a brick at her parrot squawking in
the yard. Dr. West was as red as fire, and said to her
just as he spoke to me once, when he made me hold still
to be vaccinated, Miss Freeman is not thirty. She
does not look twenty, and. is perfectly suitable for Mr.
Kelley, if she wants him.
" She don t, says I, for she don t see him half the
time when he calls, nor Dr. Colby either.
" I was going to spit out a lot more stuff, when Dr.
West put his hand to my mouth, and told me to hush
up."
There were roses now on Dora s cheeks, and they made
her positively beautiful as she kissed her sister and the
little ones good-by, glancing nervously across the broad,
quiet street to where a small, white office was nestled
among the trees. But though the blinds were down, the
door was not opened, while around the house in the
same yard there wei e no signs of life except at an upper
window, where a head, which was unmistakably that of
Dr. West s landlady, Mrs. Markham, was discernible be
hind the muslin curtain. He was not coming to say
good-by, and with a feeling of disappointment Dora
18 AUTHORS JOURNAL.
walked rapidly to the omnibus, which bore her away from
the house where they missed her so much, Squire John
looking uncomfortable and desolate, the children grow
ing very cross, and at last crying, every one of them, for
auntie ; while Margaret took refuge from the turmoil be
hind one of her nervous headaches, and went to her room,
wondering why Dora must select that time of all others
to leave her.
CHAPTER III.
DR. WEST S DIARY.
"June 13th, 10 P. M.
i]OW beautiful it is this summer night, and ho\<
softly the moonlight falls upon the quiet street
through the maple-trees ! On such a night as
this one seems to catch a faint glimpse of what Eden
must have been ere the trail of the serpent was there. I
have often wished it had been Adam who first trans
gressed instead of Eve. I would rather it had been a
man than a woman who brought so much sorrow upon
our race. And yet, when I remember that by woman
came the Saviour, I feel that to her was given the highest
honor ever bestowed on mortal. I have had so much
faith in woman, enshrining her in my heart as all that
was good and pure and lovely. And have I been mis
taken in her ? Once, yes. But that is past. Anna is
dead. I forgave her freely at the last, and mourned for
her as for a sister. How long it took to crush out my
love, to overcome the terrible pain which would waken
me from the dream that I held her again in my arms,
that her soft cheek was against my own, her long, golden
20 DR. WEST 1 8 DIARY.
curls falling on my bosom just as they once fell. I do
not like curls now, and I verily believe poor Mrs. Rus
sell, with all her whims and vanity, would be tolerably
agreeable to me were it not for that forest of hair dang
ling about her face. Her sister wears hers in bands and
braids, and I am glad, though what does it matter ? She
is no more to me than a friend, and possibly not that.
Sometimes I fancy she avoids and even dislikes me. I ve
suspected it ever since that fatal fair when she urged me
to buy what I could not afford juit then. She thought
me avaricious, no doubt, a reputation I fear I sustain, at
least among the fast young men ; but my heavenly Fa
ther knows, and some time maybe Dora will. I like to
call her Dora here alone. The name is suited to her,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora. If she were one whit
more like Anna, I never could have liked her as I do,
brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora.
" And she has gone to Morrisville, where Anna lived.
Is this Mrs. Randall very grand, I wonder, and will
Dora hear of Anna ? Of course she will. I knew that
when I asked her to be the bearer of that package
which I might have sent by express. Perhaps she will
take it herself, seeing little Robin and so hearing of
Anna. O Dora, you would pity me if you knew how
much I have suffered. Only God could give the strength
to endure, and He has done so until I carry my burden
uncomplainingly.
DR. WEST S DIARY. 21
" Will she see Lieutenant Reed, Mrs. Randall s broth
er ? What a blow that story gave me, and yet I doubted
its truth, though the possibility nearly drives me wild, and
shows me the real nature of my feelings for Dora Free
man. Let me record the event as it occurred. This
morning Dora went away to Morrisville, my old home,
though she does not know that, because, for certain rea
sons, I have not chosen to talk much of my affairs in
Beech wood. She went early, before many people were
astir, but I saw her, and heard, as I believe, the roar of
the train until it was miles away, and then I awoke to
the knowledge that the world had changed with her
going, that now there was nothing before me but the
same monotonous round of professional calls, the tire
some chatter of my landlady, Mrs. Minerva Markhaui,
and the tedious sitting here alone.
" Heretofore there has been a pleasant excitement in
watching the house across the street for a glimpse of
Dora, in waiting for her to come out upon the lawn
where she frolicked and played with all those little Rus-
sells, in seeing her sometimes steal away as if to be alone,
and in pitying her because I knew the half dozen were on
her track and would soon discover her hiding-place, in
wishing that I could spirit her away from the cares which
should fall upon another, in seeing her after the gas was
lighted going in to dinner in her white muslin dress with
the scarlet geraniums in her hair, in watching her window
22 DR. WEST 1 8 DIAR7.
until the shadow flitting before it disappeared with the
light, and I was left to wonder if the little maiden were
kneeling in adoration to Him who gave her life and be
ing. All this, or something like it, has formed a part of
my existence, but with Dora s going everything changed.
Clouds came over the sun ; the breeze from the lake
blew cold and chilly ; Mrs. Markham s talk was more in
sipid than ever, while the addition to my patrons of two
of the wealthiest families in town failed to give me pleas
ure. Dora was gone, and in a listless mood I made ray
round of visits, riding over the Berkley hills and across
the Cheshire flats, wondering if I did well to send that
package by Dora, knowing as I did that it must lead to
her hearing of Anna.
" It was sunset when I came home, a warm, purple sun
set, such as always reminds me of Dora in her mature
beauty. There was a stillness in the air, and from the
trees which skirt the hillside leading to the town the
katydids were biping their clamorous notes. I used to
like to hear them when a boy, and many s the time I ve
-
stood with Anna listening to them by the west door at
home ; but now there was a sadness in their tones as if
they were saying, Dora s gone ; Dora s gone, while the
opposite party responded, And Anna too ; and Anna
too.
11 1 had not wept for Anna since the hour when I first
knew she was lost forever, but to-night in the gathering
DR. WEST S D1ART. 23
twilight, with, the music of my boyhood sounding in my
ears, the long ago came back to me again, bringing with
it the beautiful blue-eyed girl over whose death there
hangs so dark a mystery, and there was a moisture in my
eyes, and a tear which dropped on Major s mane, and
was shed for Anna dead as well as for Dora gone. When
I reached the office, I found upon the slate a hand-writ
ing which I knew to be Johnnie Russell s, and for a mo
ment I felt tempted to kiss it, because he is Dora s
nephew. This is what he had written :
" Mother s toock ravin with one of her headaches,
cause auntie s gone, and there s nobody to tend to the
young ones. Gawly, how they ve cut up, and she wants
you to come with some jim-cracks in a phial. Yours,
with regret, JOHN RUSSELL, JB.
" I like that boy, so outspoken and truthful, but Dora
will be shocked at his language. And so my services
were needed at the big house over the way. Usually I
like to go there, but now Dora is gone it is quite
another thing, for with all my daily discipline of myself,
I dislike Mrs. Russell. I have struggled against it,
prayed against it, but as often as I see her face and hear
her voice, the old dislike comes back. There s nothing
real about her except her selfishness and vanity. Were
she raving with fever, I verily believe her hair would be
24 DR. WEST S DIARY.
just as elaborately curled, her handsome wrapper as care
fully arranged, and her heavy bracelets clasped as conspic
uously around the wrists as if in full dress for an even
ing party. To-night I found her in just this costume,
with a blue scarf thrown round her, as she reclined upon
the pillow. I knew she was suffering, from the dark
rings beneath her eyes, and this roused my sympathy.
She seems to like me as a physician, and asked me to
stop after I had prescribed for her. Naturally enough
she spoke of Dora, whom she missed so much, she said,
and then with a little sigh continued :
" It is not often that I talk familiarly with any but
my most intimate friends, but you have been in our
family so much, and know how necessary Dora is to us,
that you will partially understand what a loss it would
be to lose my sister entirely.
" Yes, a terrible loss, I said, thinking more of myself
than of her. { But is there a prospect of losing her ?
I asked, feeling through my frame a cold, sickly chill,
which rapidly increased as she replied :
" Perhaps not ; but this Mrs. Randall, whom she has
gone to visit, has a brother at West Point, you know,
Lieutenant Reed, the young man with epaulets, who was
here last summer.
" Yes, I remember him, I said, and Mrs. Russell
continued :
" < He has been in love with Dora ever since she was
DR. WEST S DIAR7. 25
with Jiis sifter Mattio at school. Dora has not yet given
him a decided answer, but I know her preference for
him, and as he is to be at his sister s while Dora is
there, it is natural to fear that it may result in event
ually taking Dora away from Beech wood.
" It may, it may, I responded, in a kind of absent
way, for my brain was in a whirl, and I scarcely knew
what I did.
" She must have observed my manner, for her eyes
suddenly brightened as if an entirely new idea had been
^suggested to her.
" Now if it were some one near by, she continued, per
haps she would not leave me. The house is large enough
for all, and Dora will marry some time, of course. She is
a kind sister, and will make a good wife.
" At tliis point Squire llussell came in, and soon after
I said good-by, going out again into the summer night,
beneath the great, full moon, whose soft, pure light could
not still the throbbing of my heart ; neither could the
long walk I took down by the lake, where Dora and I
went one day last summer. There were quite a number
of the villagers with us, for it was a picnic, but I saw
only Dora, who, afraid of the water, stayed on the shore
with me, while the rest went off in sail-boats. We talked
together very quietly, sitting on the bank, beneath a
broad grape-vine, of whose leaves she wove a sort of
wreath, as she told me of her dear old home, and how the
26 DR. WEST S LIAlif.
saddest moments she had ever known were those i" i
which she fully realized that she was never again to live
there, that stranger hands would henceforth tend the
flowers she had tended, and stranger feet tread the walks
and alleys and winding paths with which the grounds
abounded. I remember how the wish flashed upon me
that I might some day buy back the home, and take her
there as its mistress. Of all this I thought to-night, sit
ting on the lone shore, just where she once sat, and lis
tening to the low dash of the waves, which, as they came
rolling almost to my feet, seemed to murmur, Never,
never more !
" I do not believe I am love-sick, but I am very sad to
night, and the walk down to the lake did not dispel the
sadness. It may be it is wrong in me thus to despond,
when in many ways I have been prospered beyond my
most sanguine hopes. That heavy debt is paid at last,
thanks to the kind Father who raised me up so many
friends, and whose healing hand has more than once been
outstretched to save when medicine was no longer of
avail. As is natural, the cure was charged to me, when
I knew it was God who had wrought the almost miracu
lous change. And shall I murmur at anything when sure
of His love and protection ? Be still, my heart. If it be
God s will, Dora shall yet rest in these arms, which fain
would shelter her from all the ills of life ; and if tis not His
will, what am T, that I should question His dealings ? "
CHAPTER IT.
JOHNNIE S LETTER TO DORA.
" BEECHWOOD, June 13th. )
In the afternoon, up in the wood-house chaim- >
ber where I ve crawled to hide from the young ones. ;
([EAR, DEAR, DARLING AUNTIE :
" It seems to me you ve been gone a hundred
million billion years, and you ve no idea what a
forlorn old rat-trap of a plais it is Without You, nor how
the Young Ones do rase Kain. They keep xip the Darn-
dest row Auntie. I didn t mean to use that word, and
I ll scratch it right out, but when you are away, I ll be
dar There I Avas going to say it agen. I m a perfectly
Dredful Boy, ain t I ? But I do love you, Auntie, and
last night, now don t you tell pa, nor Tish, nor Nobody,
last night after I went to bed, I cried and cried and
crammed the sheet in my mouth to keep Jim from hear
ing me till I most vomited.
" Ben and Burt behave awful. Clem heard their
Prayers and right in the midst of Our father, Burt
stopped and asked if Mr. John Smith, the Storekeeper,
was related to John the baptis. Clem laughed and then
28 JOHNN1ET3 LETTER TO DORA.
Ben struck her with his fist and Burt, who is a little red
pepper any How pitched in And kicked Burt. The fuss
waked up Daisy who fell out of bed and screamed like
Murder, then Tish, great Tattle Tail, must go for Father
who came up with a big Gadd and declared he d have
order in His own house. You know the Young Ones
aint a bit afraid of Him and Ben and Burt kept on their
fightin tell Clem said c I shall tell Miss Dora how you
act. That stopped em and the last I heard Burt was
coaxing Clem :
" Don t tell Auntie. I se good now, real good.
" May bee it s mean in me to tell you but I want you to
know just how They carry on, hoping you ll pick up
your traps and come home. No I don t neither for 1
want you to stay and have a good time which I m sure
you don t have here. I wish most you was my Mother
though I guess girls of 25 don t often have great strap-
pin Boys like me, do they ? I asked Dr. West and he
looked so queer when he said, It is possible but not
common. Why not, I wonder? Now, Auntie, I don t
want mother to die, because she s Mother, but if she
should, you^ll have father, won t you ? That s a nice
Auntie, and that makes me think. Last night mother
had the headache and Dr. West was here. It was after
the Rumpus in the nursery and I was sitting at the head
of the stairs wishing you was come home when I heard
em talking about you and what do you think mother
JOIINNIWS LETTER TO DORA. 29
told Doctor ? A lot of stuff about you and that nasty
Reed who was here last summer. She talked as if you
liked him, said he would be at Mrs. llandall s and sho
rather expected it would be settled then. I was so mod.,
I bumped right up and down on the stairs and said Darn,
Darn, as fast as I could. Now, Auntie, I didn t mean
to lie, but I have. I ve told a whopper and you can bite
my head off if you like. Dr s voice sounded just as if ho
didn t want you to like that Reed and I diddent think it
right to let it go. So tliis morning I went over to the
office and found Dr. West looking pale as if he diddent
sleep good.
" Doctor, says I, do I look like a chap that will
lie?
" Why, no, says he, I never thought you did.
" But I will, ses T, * and I am come to do that very
thing, come to tell you something Aunt Dora made me
promise never to tell.
" John, you mussent, I can t hear you, he began, but
I yelled up, you shall ; I will tell ; it s about Dora
and that Reed. She don t like him. Somehow he
stopped hushin me then and pretended to fix his books
while I said how last summer I overheard this Reed ask
you to be his wife, and you told him 110 ; you did not
lovo him well enough, and never could, and how you
meant it too. There diddent neither of you know I was
out in the balcony, I said, until ho was gone, and I
30 JOUNN1ETS LETTER TO DORA.
sneazed when you talked to rue and made me promise
never to tell what I d heard to father, nor mother, nor
nobody. I never did tell them, but I ve told the doctor,
and I ain t sorry, it made him look so glad. He took
me, and Tish, and Ben, and Burt, all out riding this
afternoon and talked to them real nice, telling them they
must be good while you was gone. Tish and Jim are
pretty^good, but Ben has broken the spy -glass and the
umberill, and Burt has set down on the kittens, and oh I
must tell you ; he took a big iron spoon which he called
a sovcl and dug up every single gladiola in the garden !
Ain t they terrible Boys ?
" There, they ve found where I be, and I hear Burt com
ing up the stairs one step at a time, so I must stop, for
they ll tip over the ink, or something. Dear Auntie, I
do love you ever and ever so much, and if you want my
Auntie and a grown up woman I d marry you. Do boys
ever marry their aunts ?
" Your, with Due Respect,
N RUSSELL.
" p.s. Excuse my awful spellin. I never could spel,
you know, or make the right Capitols.
" p.s. No. 2. Burt has just tumbled the whole length of
the wood-house stares, and landed plump in the pounding
barrel, half full of water. You orto hear him Yell"
CHAPTER Tr.
DORA S DIARY.
" MORRISVILLE, June 13th.
WAS too tired last niglit to open my trunk,
and so have a double duty to perform, that
of recording the events of the last two days.
Can it be that it is not yet forty-eight hours since I left
Beechwood and all its cares, which, now that I am away
from them, do seem burdensome? What a delicious
feeling there is in being referred to and waited upon as if
you were of consequence, and how I enjoy knowing that
for a time at least I can rest ; and I begin to think I need
it, for how else can I account for the languid, weary sen
sation which prompts me to sit so still in the great, soft,
motherly chair which Mattie has assigned me, and which
stands right in the cosey bay-window, where I can look
out upon the beautiful scenery of Morrisville ?
" It is very pleasant here, and so quiet that it almost
seems as if the town had gone to sleep and knew nothing
of the great, roaring, whirling world without. Not even
a car-whistle to break the silence, for the nearest station
where I stopped, after my uneventful ride, is eight milea
32 DORA S DIARY.
from here. There was Mattie herself waiting for me on
the platfoira, her face as sunny as ever, arid her greeting
as cordial. Her husband, Mr. Randall, is a tall, well-
formed man, with broad shoulders, which look a little
like West Point discipline. It was very silly in one to
contrast him at once with Dr. West, but I did, and Dr.
West gained by the comparison, for there is an expres.
sioii in his face which I seldom see in others, certainly
not in Mr. Ixaudall. lie looks, as I suspect he is, proud,
and yet he is very kind to me, treating nie with as much
deference as if I were the Queen of England. They had
come in their carriage, and the drive over the green hills
and through the pleasant valleys was delightful. I could
do nothing but admire, and still I wondered that one as
fond of society as Mattie should have settled so far from
the stirring world as Morrisville, and at last I asked why
she had done so.
" It s all Will s doings, she answered, laughingly.
He is terribly exclusive, and fancied that in Morrisville
he should find ample scope for indulging his taste, that
people would let him alone, but they don t. Why, we
have only lived there three months, and I am sure half
the town know just how many pieces of silver I have,
whether my dishes are stone or French china, what hour
we breakfast, when we go to bed, when we get up, and
how many dresses I have. But I don t care, I rather
like it; and then, too, Morrisville is not a very small
UOliA S D1AR7. 33
town. It has nearly three thousand inhabitants, and a
few as refined and cultivated people as any with whom J
ever met.
" Who are they ? I asked, and Mattie began :
" There s the Verners, and Waldos, and Strikers, and
Kathbones in town, while in the country there s the
Kiugslakes, and Croftons, and Bishops, and Warings,
making a very pleasant circle.
" I don t know why I felt disappointed that she did
not mention Mrs. David West as among the upper ten,
but I did, and should have ventured to speak of thai
lady if I had not been a little afraid of Mr. Kandall,
who might think my associates too plebeian, to wii*
him.
" We were entering the town now, and as v/e drove
through what Mattie said was Grove Street, 1 forgot al)
about Mrs. David West in my admiration of the prettiest
little white cottage I ever saw. I cannot describe it ex
cept that it seemed all porticoes, bay-winJows, and fuunv
little places shooting out just where you did not expect
them. One bay-window opened into the garden, which
was full of flowers, while right through the centre ran
a gurgling brook, which just at the entrance had been
coaxed into a tiny waterfall. I was in ecstasies, particu
larly as on a grass-plat, under a great elm-tree, an oldish-
looking lady sat knitting and talking to a beautiful child
reclining in a curious-looking vehicle, half wagon, half
3*
34 DOHA S DIARY.
chair. I never in my life saw anything so lovely as the
face of that child, seen only for a moment, with the setting
sunlight falling on its golden curls and giving it the look
of an angel. The lady interested me greatly in her dress
of black, with the widow s cap resting on her gray hair,
while her face was familiar as if I had seen it before.
" Who are they ? I asked Mattie, but she did not
.know.
" Neither did her husband, and both laughed at my
evident admiration.
" We will walk by here some day, and maybe you can
make their acquaintance, Mattie said, as she saw how I
leaned back for a last glance at the two figures beneath
the trees.
" There is West Lawn ! Mattie cried at last, in her
enthusiastic way, pointing out a large stone building
which stood a little apart from the town.
"I knew before that West Lawn was the name of
Mr. Randall s home, and when I saw it I comprehended
at once why it was so called. It was partly because of
the long grassy lawn in front, and partly because it stood
to the westward of the village, upon a slight eminence
which overlooked the adjacent country. It is a delight
ful place, and Mattie says they have made many im
provements since they bought it. But it must have been
pleasant before, for it shows mai-ks of care and cultiva
tion given to it years ngo. Like that cottage by the
DORA S DIARY. 35
brook, it has bay-windows and additions, while I think 1
never saw so many roses around one spot in my life.
There is a perfect wilderness of them, in every shade and
variety. These reminded me of Dr. West, who is so fond
of roses, and who said once that he would have his home
literally covered with them. Yfest Lawn would suit
him at this season, I am sure. Here in Morrisville I find
myself thinking a great deal about Dr. West, and think
ing only good of him. I forget all I ever fancied about
his littleness, and remember instead how kind he is to
the Beech wood poor, who have named at least a dozen
children after him. Mrs. David West ! I do not see as
I shall be able to meet her ladyship, as she evidently
iocs not belong to the Vernor and Randall clique.
" But let me narrate events a little more in the order in
which they occurred, going back to last night, when we
had tea in what Mattie calls the c Rose Room, because
the portico in front is enveloped with roses. Then came a
long talk, when Mr. Randall was gone for his evening
paper, and when Mattie, nestling up to me, with- her head
in my lap, just as she used to do in school, told me what
a dear fellow her husband was, and how much she loved
him. Then some music, I playing my poor accompani
ments while Mattie sang her favorite Scotch ballads.
Then, at an early hour for me, I went to bed, for Mattio
does not like sitting xip till midnight. I have a large,
airy chamber, which must have been fitted up for a young
36 DORA S DIARY.
lady, there are so many closets, and shelves, and presses,
with a darling little bath and dressing-room opening out
of it. Mattie, who came in to see that I was comforta-
able, told me this was the only room in which the paper
had not been changed.
" It s old fashioned, as you see, sho said, and must
have been on before the time of Mr. "VVakely, of whom
wo bought the house, but it is so pretty and clean that I
would not have it touched.
" It is indeed pretty, its ground a pure white, sprinkled
here and there with small bouquets of violets. Just back
of the dressing-table and near the window are pencil-
marks, * Robert, Robert, Robert, in a girlish hand, and
then a name which might have been Annie, though
neither of us could make it out distinctly. Evidently
this room belonged to a maiden of that name, and while
thinking about her and wondering who she was, I fell
asleep. I do not believe in haunted houses, nor witches,
nor ghosts, nor goblins, but last night I had the queerest
dreams, in which that woman and child beneath the trees
were strangely mingled with Dr. West and a young lady
who came to me with such a pale, sad face, that I woke
in a kind of nightmare, my first impression being that I
was occupying some other room than mine.
" This morning Mattie was present while I unpacked my
trunk, and coming upon that package, I said, as uncon
cernedly as possible, Oh, by the way, do you know such
DORA S DIAR7, 37
a person as Mrs. David West ? I have a package for her,
entrusted to me by a a friend in Beech wood.
" Mrs. David West ? and Mattie seemed to be think
ing as she examined the package, which felt like a small
square box. Mrs. David West ? No, I know no such
person; but then I ve only lived here three months.
There s Bell Verner now coming in the gate. Maybe she
will know, though they have only been here since last
autumn. I ll ask her, and you be in readiness to come
down if she inquires for you, as she certainly will. You
look sweet in your white wrapper, with the blue ribbon
round your waist. I wish blue was becoming to me
Yes, yes, Dinah, I m coming, and she fluttered down to
the hall, where I heard a sound of kissing, accompanied
with little cooing tones of endearment, such as Mattie
has always been famous for ; then a whisper, and then I
shut the door, for I was sure they were talking of me.
As a general thing I dread to meet grand people, I hud
enough of them at Newport: and so I hated to meet Miss
Bell Vemer; and after I was sent for I waited a little,
half wishing myself away from Morrisville.
" I found her a stylish, cold-looking girl, who, after tak
ing me in, at a glance, from my head to my slippers, said
rather abruptly :
" Excuse me, Miss Freeman, but weren t you at New.
port last summer ?
38 DOJZA S DIARY.
" * Yes, I answered, now scanning her, to discover, if
possible, some trace of a person seen before.
" I thought so, she continued. We were at the At
lantic. We could not get in at the Ocean House, it was
so full. Pardon me, but I am afraid I felt slightly ill-
natured at your party the Russells, I believe because
they took so many rooms as to shut us out entirely. If I
remember rightly, there were nine of you,* together with
three servants, and you stayed two months. I used to
see you on the beach, and thought your bathing-dress so
pretty. We were a little jealous, too, at our house of
Miss Freeman, who was styled the belle."
" Oh, no, I exclaimed, feeling very much embarrassed,
* I couldn t be a belle. I did not go much in society. I
stayed with Margaret who was sick, or helped take care
of the children.
" Oh, yes, she rejoined, * I heard of the invalid Mrs.
llussell, who exacted so much of her sweet-tempered sis
ter. The gentlemen were very indignant. By the way,
how is Mrs. Russell ?
" I did not like the way she spoke of Margaret, and with
as much dignity as possible I replied that Mrs. llussell
was still out of health, and I feared would always remain
so. Somehow I fancied that the fact of there having been
nine of us, with three servants, and that we stayed at the
Ocean House two months did more towards giving Miss
Verner a high opinion of me than all Mattie must have
DORA S DIARY. 39
said in. my praise, for she became very gracious, so that I
really liked her, and wished I had as flue and polished an
air as she carried with her. When we had talked of the
Strykers, and Waldos, and Rathbones, Mattie suddenly
asked if Bell knew a Mrs. David West in. town.
" Mrs. David West ? Mrs. David West ? It did seem
as if Miss Veruer had heard the name, and that it be
longed to a widow living on the Ferry town road. But
why do you ask ? she said. It can t ba any one desir
able to know.
" Mattie explained why, and Miss Verner good-natur
edly offered to inquire, but Mattie said no, their man Peter
would ascertain and take the package. So after Miss
Veruer was gone, and Peter came round to prune a rose
bush, Mattie put him the same question :
< Did he know Mrs. David West ?
" Yes, he knew where she lived ; she had that hand
some grandchild.
" Of course Mattie deputed him at once to do my errand,
and I consented, though I wished so much to go myself.
Running up-stairs I wrote on a card :
" Dr. West, of Beechwood, commissioned me to be the
bearer of this little package, which I should have brought
to you myself had Mrs. Randall known where to find
you.
" DORA EKEEMAN, West Lawn.
40 DORA S
"I did not see Peter again until long after dinner, and
then I asked if he had done ruy errand.
" Yes, miss, he replied. She was much obliged.
She s a nice woman.
" Peter, don t those verbenas need sheltering from the
hot sun? Mr. Randall called oub, his manner indicat
ing that by volunteering information respecting Mrs.
David West, Peter was getting too familiar.
" Mr. Randall is very proud, and so is Mattie, but iu a
different way. If she knew how much I wish to see
Mrs. West, or at least learn something of her, she would
never rest until the wish was gratified. We took a walk
after tea to the village cemetery, of which the people are
justly proud, for it is a most beautiful spot, divesting the
dark, still grave of half its terrors. There are some
splendid monuments there, one costing I dare not tell
how much. It was reared to the memory of General
Morris, for whom the town Avas named, but this did not
impress me one half so much as a solitary grave standing
apart from all the others and enclosed by a slender iron
fence. The grass in the little yard was fresh and green,
and there were many roses growing there. The stone was
a plain slab of Italian marble, with only these words upon
it:
" Anna, aged 20.
" Even Mattie was interested, and we leaned a lone; time
* O
011 the gate, speculating upon the Anna sleeping at our
DORA8 DIARY. 41
feet. Who was she, and whose the hand of love which
had been so often busy there? She was young, only-
twenty when she died. Had many years been joined to
the past since she was laid to rest? Was she beautiful,
and good, and pure? Yes, she was all that, I fancied,
and I even dared to pluck a rose-bud whose parent stalk
had taken root near the foot of the grave. I can sec it
now in the glass of water where I put it after returning
home. That rose and that grave have interested mo
strangely, painfully I may say, as if the Anna whom they
represented were destined to cross my path, if ever the
dead can rise up a barrier between the living.
"June 15th.
" A steady summer rain has kept us in-doors all day, but
I have enjoyed the quiet so much. It seems as if I never
should got rested, and I am surprised to find how tired I
am, and how selfish I am growing. I was wicked enough
to bo sorry when in the afternoon Bell Verner cainc,
bringing her crocheting and settling herself for a visit.
She is very sociable, and asks numberless questions about
Leechwood and its inhabitants. I wonder why I told her
of everybody but Dr. West, for I did, but of him I could
not talk, and did not.
" SATURDAY, June ICth.
" A long letter from Johnnie, and so like him, that I
cannot find it in my heart to scold him on paper for his
42 DORA S DIAE7.
dreadful language. I will talk to him on my return, and
tell him he must be more choice of words and must mako
an effort to learn to spell, though I believe it is natural
to the Hussells to spell badly. I can see just how they
miss me at home, and I cried over the letter till I was al
most sick. I am sure they want me there, and I wonder
what they would say if they knew how the Randalls, and
Verners, and Strykers are plotting to keep me here un
til September, Mattie and Bell saying they will then go
with me to Beechwood. Just think of those two fine
ladies at our house. To be sure, it is quite as expensively
furnished as either Mattie s or Bell Verner s, and we
keep as many servants ; but the children, the confusion !
What would they do ? No, I must not stay, though I should
enjoy it vastly. I like Bell Vemer,as I know her better.
There is a depth of character about her for which I did
not at first give her credit. One trait, however, annoys
me exccssiv3ly. She wants to get married, and makes
no secret of it either. She s old enough, too, twenty;
eight, as she told me of her own accord, j ust as she is
given to telling everything about herself. Secretly, I
think she would suit Dr. West, only she might feel above
him, she is so exclusive. I wonder Margaret should tell
him that stoiy about Lieutenant Reed, and I am glad
Johnnie set him right. I would not have Lieutenant Heed
fcr the diamonds of India, and yet he is a great, good-
natured, vain fellow, who is coming here by and by. I
DORAS DIARY. 43
think I ll turn him over to Bell, though I can fancy how
her black eyes would flash upon him.
" I nave had a note from Mrs. David Wt st, inviting me
to come and see her, and this is the way it reads :
"My DEAR Miss FREEMAN :
" I am much obliged for the trouble you took in bring
ing me that package, and did I go out at all, except to
church, I would thank you in person. If you can, will
vou come and see me before you return to Beech wood ? I
should like to talk with you about the Doctor. Any one
interested in him has a sure claim upon my friendship.
" Yours respectfully,
" HELEN WEST.
" GROVE STREET, No. 30.
" Nothing can be more ladylike than the handwriting,
and, indeed, the whole thing. Mrs. David West may be
poor and unknown, but she is every whit as refined and
cultivated as either Mattie or Bell. I shall see her, too,
before I leave MorrisviJle ; but why does she take it for
granted that I am interested in Dr. West ? I am not, ex
cept as a good physician ; and what is she to him ? Here
I am puzzling my brain and wasting the gas, when I
ought to be in bed ; so with one look at that rose, which I
have been foolish enough to press, the rose from Anna s
grave, I ll bid the world good-night."
CHAPTER VI.
LETTERS.
No. 1.
Mrs. David West s Letter.
Y DEAR RICHARD:
" Your package of money and little note, sent
by Miss Dora Freeman, was brought to me with
a line from the young lady by Mr. Randall s colored ser
vant Peter. I know you could not afford to send me so
much, and I wish you had kept a part for yourself.
Surely, if the commandment with promise means any
thing, and we know it does, you, my son, will lo
blessed for your kindness to your widowed mother, as
well as your unselfish devotion to those who have been,
one the innocent, the other the guilty, cause of so much
suffering. God reward my boy my only boy as I some
times fear. Surely if Robert were living he would have
sent us word ere this. I have given him up, asking God
to pardon his sin, which was great.
" And so the debt is paid at last ! Dear Richard, when
I read that I shed tears of gratitude and thanksgiving
that you were free from a load you never should havo
LETTERS. 45
borne. It was a large sum for you to earn and pay io
less than seven years, besides supporting ine and Jlobin.
He grows dearer to me every day, and yet I seldom look
at him without a great choking sob rising to my throat.
He is like his mother, and I loved her as if she had been
my daughter. O Anna, lost darling, was she as pure
and sinless when she died as when she crept into my arms
and whispered of her newly found hope in Him who can
keep us all from sin ? God only knows. Alas ! that her
end should be wrapt in so dark a mystery ; and ten times
alas ! that any one should be malignant enough to blame
you, who had well-nigh died when the trouble fell upon
us.
" And so you fear you are more interested in this Dora
than you ought to be, or rather that she is far too good
for you.
" She must be very, very good, if my boy bo not worthy
of her.
" Yes, the Randalls are very grand, fashionable people,
as you may know from the fact that the Verners and
Strykers took them up at once. I don t know what in
fluence they may have over Dora ; not a bad one, I hope.
I think I saw her the other night riding by on horseback,
in company with Bell Verner. It was too dark to seo
her distinctly, but I heard Miss Verner say, in reply evi
dently to some remark, I never trouble myself to know
or inquire after any one out of our set, and then they
46 LETTERS.
galloped on rapidly. As I am not in Miss Verner a
set she will not probably bring Dora to see me, but I
have obviated that difficulty by writing her a note and
inviting her to call on me. Did I do right ? I am
anxious to see her, for a mother can judge better than
her son of what is in woman.
" Yours affectionately,
"HELEN WEST."
{< By the way, did you know that Mr. Randall was the
purchaser of West Lawn, our old home ?
H. W."
No. 2.
Extract from Dr. West s reply.
" DEAR MOTHER : Your letters do mo so much good,
and make me strong to bear, though really I have per
haps as little to trouble me as do most men of my years.
If the mystery concerning poor Anna were made clear,
if we were sure that she was safe with the good Shep
herd, and if we knew that Robert, whether dead or alive,
had repented of his sin, I should be very happy.
"There s Dora, I know, a continuous trouble, but
one with which I would not willingly dispense. You ask
if you did right to invite her to call. You seldom do
wrong ; but in this case, O mother, I have become a
perfect coward since Dora left me. I thought I wanted
her to know all that we know of Anna and llobin ; but
now the very possibility of her hearing the little you can
LETTERS. 47
tell, and then giving it the natural construction which she
might, makes the cold sweat ooze out in drops upon my
face. If she comes, tell her as little as possible. It
gives me a thrill of satisfaction to know that she is at
West Lawn, enjoying the roses I planted. Dear West
Lawn ! but for that terrible misfortune which prompted
us to sell it, you might have belonged to Miss Bell Yer-
ner s set. But don t tell Dora. I d rather she should like
me for myself, and not for what I used to be." * * * *
No. 3.
Extract from Margaret s letter to Dora.
* * * * " I do think you might come home, instead of
asking to stay longer. It s right shabby in you to leave
me so long, when you know how much I suffer. The
children behave dreadfully, and even John has acted real
cross, as if he thought all ailed me was nervousness. You
cannot love me, Dora, as much- as I do you, and I think
it s downright ungrateful after all I ve done for you since
father died. If you care for me at all, you ll come in just
one week from to-day. I have about decided to go to
Saratoga, and want you to go "vith me. Tie sure and
come."
No. 4.
Extract from Matties letter to Margaret.
" DEAR MRS. RUSSELL : Excuse the liberty I am
taking, but really if you and your husband knew how
48 LETTERS.
much Dora has improved since leaving home, and how
much she really needs rest, you would not insist on her
coming home so soon. Husband and I and Bell "Verner
all think it too bad, and I for one veto her leaving us."
No. 5.
Extract from, Hfr. Randall s letter.
(( MRS. RUSSELL. MADAM : Both myself and Mrs.
.Randall are exceedingly loth to part with our young
guest, whom rest is benefiting so much. You will do
us and her a great favor to let her remain, and I may add
I think it your duty so to do."
Scene in Mrs. RusselVs parlor one morning about the
first of JTuly.
Squire John nervously fumbling his watch-chain, look
ing very hot and distressed ; Johnnie all swollen up, look
ing like a little volcano ready to explode ; Mrs. Russell cry
ing over Mr. and Mrs. Randall s letters, wondering what
business it was of theirs to meddle and talk, just as if she
did not do her duty by Dora. Who, she d like to know, had
supported Dora these dozen years, sending her to school,
taking her to Newport, and buying her such nice dresses ?
It was right mean in Dora, and she would not stand it.
Dora should come home, and John should write that very
day to tell her so, unless he liked Dora better than he did
her, as she presumed he did yes, she knew he did.
LETTERS, 49
" Thunderation, mother, why shouldn t he like A untie
best ? " and with this outburst, Johnnie plunged heart
and soul into the contest. " Who, I d like to know,
makes the house decent as a fellow likes to have it, a
married old chap, I mean, like father. Tain t you. It s
AuntiC) and so the whole co-boozle of servants say. You
ask em. Talk about what you ve done for Dora these
dozen years, taking her to Newport, and all that ! I think
I d dry up on that strain and tell what she d done for me.
Hasn t there been a baby about every other week since
she lived here, and hasn t Auntie had the whole cai-e of the
brats ? And at Newport how was it ? I never told be
fore, but I will now. I heard two nice gentlemen talk
ing over what a pretty girl Miss Freeman was, and how
mean and selfish it was in her sister to make such a
little nigger of her. They didn t say nigger, but that s
what they meant. Dora ain t coming home, no how.
You can go to Saratogo without her. Take Clem, and
Daisy, and Tish, and Jim. You know they act the best
of the lot. Leave me and Burt and Ben at home. I ll
see to them, and we shall get on well enough."
By this time Margaret was in hysterics, to think a son
of hers should abuse her so, with his father standing by
and never once trying to stop him. Possibly some such
idea crept through Squire John s brain, for, putting into
his voice as much sternness as he was capable of doing,
he said, " My boy, I m astonished that you should use
8
50 LETTERS.
such shocking words as thunderation, co-boozle, dry ?//>,
and the like. Your Aunt Dora would be greatly dis
tressed; but, Madge," turning to his sobbing wife and
trying to wind his arm around her waist, " Johnnie ia
right, on the whole ; his plan is a good one. We ll take
Clem, and Rosa, too, if you like, leaving Johnnie, Ben,
and Burt at home, and Dora shall stay where she is.
She was tired when she went away, arid very pale. You
are not selfish, Madge ; you ll let her stay. I ll write so
now, shall I ? " and there was a sound very much like a
very large, hearty kiss, while a moment after Johnnie,
in the kitchen, was turning a round of somersaults, strik
ing his heels in the fat sides of the cook, and tripping up
little Burt in his delight at the victory achieved for
Dora.
No. 6.
Extract from Johnnie s letter to Dora.
" July 7th.
" DEAR A UNTIE : The house is still a as mouse, and
seems so funny. The old folks, with Tish, Jim, Daisy,
Clem, and Rosa, have cut stick for Saratoga, leaving me
with Ben and Burt. You orto have seen me pitch into
mother about your staying. I give it to her good, and
twitted about your being a drudge. I meant it all
then, but now that she is gone, I ll be I guess I ll skip
the hard words, and say that every time I rem ber
what I said to her, there s a thumpin great lump comes
LETTERS, 5]
in my throat, and I wish I hadn t said it. I ve beguo
six letters to tell her J am sorry, and she only been gone
two days, but I ve tore em. all up, and now when you see
her you tell her I m sorry, cause I am, and I keep
thinkin of when I was a little shaver in pettycoats, how
she sometimes took me in her lap and said I was a
preshus little hunny, the joy of her life. Sho says I m
the pest of it now, and she never kisses me no more, nor
lets IE 9 kiss her cause she says I slawber and wet her
face, and muss her hair and dress. But she s mother,
and I wish I hadn t sed them nasty things to her and
maid her cry.
" Dr. West was here just now, and wanted to borrow
a book, but when he found it was yourn he wouldn t take
it ; he said he d write and ask permission.
" We get on nice, only cook has spanked Ben once and
Burt twice. I told her if she did it agen I d spank her,
and so I will. I think I ve got her under, so she knows
I m man of the house. The old cat has weened her kit
tens. Burt shut one of em up in the meal chest, and
the white-fased cow has come in, which means she s got a
calph." Yours,
" JOHNNIE."
52 LETTERS.
No. 7.
Dr. Wesfs letter, on which he spent three hours, wast
ing half a dozen sheets of note-paper, and which when
finished did not please him at all.
" Miss FREEMAN : You probably do not expect me to
write to you, and will be surprised at receiving this let
ter. The fact is I want permission to go to that little
library, which, until this morning, I did not know was
yours. There are some books I would like to read, but
will not do so without leave from the owner.
" I hear you are enjoying your visit, and I am glad, al
though 7" miss you very much. Of course you know your
brother and sister are at Saratoga, and that Johnnie is
keeping house, as he says. If you have not time to an
swer this to me, please say to Johnnie whether I can
read the books or not.
" Yours truly,
" RICHARD WEST."
No. 8.
Dora s reply, over which she spent two hours and wasted
five sheets of note-paper.
" DR. WEST. DEAR SIR : You really were over-nice
about the books, and I should feel like scolding were it not
that your fastidiousness procured me a letter which I did
not expect from you. Certainly, you may take any book
you like.
LETTERS. 53
" And so you miss me ? I wonder if that is true. I
should not think you would. I m not worth missing.
I hope you will see Johnnie as often as possible.
" Yours respectfully,
" DORA.
"P. S. I am going to-morrow to see Mrs. David
West."
CHAPTER VII.
DORA S DIARY CONTINUED.
I T is a long time since I wrote a word in this book ;
I have been so happy and so busy withal ; visits,
rides, picnics, and everything. I did not know
that life was so bright and pleasant as I have found it here
in Morrisville, where everybody seems trying to enter
tain me. Mattie s brother Charlie is here, but he behaves
like a man ; does not annoy me one bit, but flirts shock
ingly with Sell Verner, who flirts as hard in return. He
teasingly asked me one day about Dr. West, and when
Bell inquired who he was, he said he was a country
doctor of little pills ; a sort of lackadaisical chap, who
read service very loud, and almost touched the pew rail
ing when he bowed in the Apostles Creed.
" I grew so very angry defending Dr. West that Bell
honestly believes I care for him, and kindly stops Lieuten
ant Reed when he begins his fun. I like Bell Verner more
and more, only she is too proud. How I cried over that
letter from Margaret telling me to come home, and how
I tried not to have Mr. and Mrs. Randall answer it ; but
they did, and there came back such a nice response from
DORAS DIARY CONTINUED. 55
John. "What a dear, unselfish man he is, and how smooth
he made it look, so smooth that I really felt as if doing
him a favor by staying until Johnnie s letter was received,
and I guessed at once the storm through which they had
passed.
" Will I ever forget the day I received a letter from Dr.
West? I could scarcely credit my own eyes, yet there
was his name, Richard West, looking so natural. I felt
the blood tingling in my veins, even though he merely
wrote to ask me if he might read my books, the foolish
man ! Of course he might. He says he misses me, and
this I think is why the letter is worth so much, and
why 3 answered it. Perhaps it was foolish to do so, but
I cau t help it now.. It is not at all likely he ll write
again though I find myself fancying how I shall feel, and
what he would say in a second letter. Bell Verner knows
he w- ote, for I told her, but pretended I did not care.
To-n orrow I am going at last to see Mrs. David West.
"July 15th. I have seen Mrs. David West; have
looked into her eyes, so like the doctor s ; have heard her
voice ; have seen the child ; and oh ! why am I so
wretched, and why, when I came back, did I tear up
that rose from Anna s grave and throw it to the winds ?
I hate this room. I cannot bear it, for Anna used to
occupy it ; she haunts me continually. She died in this
roo n. Riclwrd kissed her here, and here that child was
box i. Oh, what am I to think except what I do ? And
56 DORA S DIARY CONTINUED.
yet it is all suspicion, based on what a gossiping woman
told me. I wish she had never come here. I would
rather have cooked the dinner myself than have heard
what I have.
" It was arranged that Mattie should go with me to see
this Mrs. David West, and I thought of little else all
the morning; but when dinner came Mattie had been
seized with one of her violent headaches, and it was im
possible for her even to sit up. Knowing how much I
had anticipated the call, and not wishing to have me dis
appointed, she insisted that I shoxild go without her,
Peter acting as my escort there, while the new cook, a
Mrs. Felton, who, it seems, had business on that street,
would call for me on her way home. This was the ar
rangement, and at about four o clock I started. I had in
some way received the impression that Mrs. David West
lived on Elm Street, and when we passed that point I
asked Peter if we were light.
" Yes, miss, Grove Street, just there a ways in the
neatest little cottage you ever set eyes on, I reckon.
" Involuntarily I thought of the woman and child seen
that first evening of my arrival at Morrisville, and some
thing told me I was going straight to that cottage with
its roses, its vines, and bay- windows. The surmise was
correct. I knew the house in an instant, and had there
been a dolibt it would have been dispelled by the widow s
cap and the little child out on the grass-plat, just where
DOHA S DIARY CONTINUED. 57
they were that other summer day so like this and yet so
unlike it, for then I never guessed how sharp a pang I
should be suffering now.
< There she is. That s Mrs. West with Robin, Peter
said, and the next moment I was speaking to Mrs. David
West, and before she said to me, You know my son,
I felt sure she was the doctor s mother.
"The same fine cast of feature, the same kind, honest
expression beaming in the dark eye, and the same curve
of the upper lip, said by some to be always indicative
of high breeding. The mother and son were very much
alike, except that she as a female was noticeable for a
softer style of beauty. I never saw one to whom the
widow s cap was so becoming. It seemed peculiarly
adapted to her sad, sweet face and the silken bands of
grayish hair, which it did not conceal. There was also in
her manner and speech a refinement which even Bell Ver-
ner might have imitated with advantage. My heart
went out to her at once, and by the time I was seated in
the rustic chair, for I preferred remaining in the yard, I
felt as much at ease as if I had known her all my life.
" This is Robin, she said, turning to the child, who I
now discovered was a cripple in its feet, and unable to
walk. Did Richard ever tell you of Robin ?
" There was a hesitancy now in her voice, as if she knew
Richard had never told me of him, and doubted her own
integrity in asking the question.
8*
58 DORA 1 8 DIARY CONTINUED.
(< No, I replied, the doctor never told me of Robin,
nor yet of himself.
" Richard is very reticent, she answered ; and then
as she saw my glance constantly directed to Robin, ehe
evidently tried to keep me from talking of him by asking
numberless questions about Richard, and by telling me
what a good, kind child he was to her.
"It is true I did not suspect her then of such a motive,
but I can see now how she headed me off from the dan
gerous ground on which I leaped at last, for I could not
resist the expression of that child s face, and breaking
away from what she was telling me of Richard, I knelt
by his chair, and kissing his round cheek, asked :
" Whose boy are you ?
" Papa Richard s and grandma s, he replied, and then
there flashed upon me the thought that in spite of his
deep blue eyes and soft golden curls he was like Dr.
West. For an instant I was conscious of a sharp, sting
ing pain, as I said to myself, Was Dr. West ever mar
ried? Surely he would have told of that, would at
some time have mentioned his wife, and with the pain
there came the knowledge that I did care more for Dr.
West than I had supposed ; that I was jealous of the dead
woman, the mother of this child. Mrs. West must have
divined a part of my thoughts, for she said half laugh
ingly, like one under restraint :
" He has always called my son " Papa Richard," as he
DORA S DIARY CONTINUED. 59
is the only father the child ever knew, and a shadow
flitted across her face as she directed my attention to a
tall heliotrope near by. But I was not to be evaded ;
curiosity was aroused, and replying to her remark con
cerning the heliotrope, I turned again to Robin, whose
little hand I now held in mine, and said, He is your
grandchild ?
" Suddenly the dark eyes looked afar off as if appealing
to something or somebody for help ; then they softened
and tears were visible in them.
" ( Poor little Robin, he has been a source of great sor
row as well as of comfort to me, Miss Freeman, and
Mrs. "West s delicate hand smoothed and unwound the
golden curls clustering around Robin s head. So I
used to unwind her curls, she continued abstractedly.
* Robin s mother. I must show you her picture when
we go in. She was very beautiful, more so than any one
I ever knew, and Richard thinks the same.
" Again that keen pain, as of a sharp knife gliding
through my flesh, passed over me, but I listened breath
lessly, while still caressing the child she continued :
" His mother was my adopted daughter : I never had
ene of my own. Two sons have been born to me ; one
I have lost, and her breath came gaspingly like speaking
of the dead, the other you know is Richard. To all
intents and purposes Anna was my daughter, and I am
sure no mother ever loved her own offspring mgre than I
60 DOHA S DIARY CONTINUED.
did Anna. O Anna darling, Anna darling ! I never
dreamed, when I took her to my bosom, that she could
O Anna ! and Mrs. West s voice broke down in a
storm of sobs.
" After this I could not ask her any more questions, and
in a kind of maze I followed her into the house, which
was a perfect little gem, and showed marks of most ex
quisite taste. Some of the furniture struck me as rather
too heavy and expensive for that cottage, but I gave it but
little thought, so interested was I in what I had heard
and seen.
" That is Anna? Mrs. "West said, pointing to a small
portrait hanging upon the wall just where the western
sunbeams were falling upon it and lighting it up with a
wonderful hulo of beauty.
" Instantly I forgot all else in my surprise that anything
so perfectly beautiful could ever have belonged to a
human being, and with a scream of delight I stood be
fore the picture, exclaiming, It is not possible that this
is natural !
"It is said to be, Mrs. West rejoined, ( though there
is a look in her eye which I did not notice until a few
months before she died. She was crazy at the last.
" Crazy ! I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of
pity upon the lovely face, which seemed imbued with life.
" I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it,
for after I had told of the dark blue eyes and curls of
DORAS DIAR7 CONTINUED. 61
golden hair, of the pure white skin and full ripe lips,
you, my journal, would not have the least idea of the
face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it
what it was can never be described on paper. The
artist had put it on canvas, so at least said Mrs. David
"West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare loveliness
and repeating again, Crazy poor Anna ! Was it for
long ?
" No, not long ; she died when Robin was born.
" And her husband ; he must have been heart-broken,
I ventured to say next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she
made no reply, and with my thoughts in a tumult, I
continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly remem
bering the grave which had so interested me, I asked,
How old was Anna when she died ?
" Just twenty, was the reply; while I rejoined, { I
am sure then I have seen her grave. It says upon the
stone, "Anna, aged 20."
" Yes, that s all Richard would have on the marble.
It almost killed Richard, but God has healed the wound
just as He will heal all hearts which go to Him.
" I don t know why I said what I did next, unless it
were that I should have died if I had not. The words
were wrung from me almost against my will :
" Was Richard Anna s husband ?
" No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband ! Mrs.
West replied, quickly.
62 DORA S DIARY CONTINUED.
"Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning
Anna with hesitancy, but the No, no, oh no, Richard
was not her husband, was spoken eagerly, decidedly, as
if it were a fact she would particularly impress upon my
mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she
went on, but this time in the old, cautious manner :
"I never knew who Anna s husband was. It is a sad
story, which I woxild gladly forget, but Robin s presence
keeps it in my mind, and bowing her head over the
child, the poor woman wept passionately.
" Poor grandma, don t cry. I love you! What
makes grandma cry over me so much, and look so sorry
at me ? Is it because I am a little lame boy ?
" This Robin said to me, while he tried to brush away
the tears of her he called grandmother. He had not
talked much before, but what he said now went through
my heart, and kissing his forehead, I whispered :
" People sometimes cry for joy.
" But she don t, he said, nodding toward Mrs. West,
who left us alone while she bathed her face and eyes.
4 She looks so sorry, and says, " Poor Robin," so often.
I guess it s because my feet will never walk, that she
says that. I should cry too, but Papa Richard talked to
me so good, and said God made me lame ; that up in
heaven there were no little cripples ; that if I loved the
Savioxxr, and didn t fret about my feet, I d go up there
Borne day ; and since then I ve tried hard not to mind,
DORA S DIARY CONTINUED. 63
and ever so many times a day I say softly to myself,
" Will Jesus help Robin not to fret because he s a poor
lame boy, of no use to anybody." I say it way in my
mouth, but God hears just the same.
" I could not answer for my weeping, but kneeling be
side the lame boy, I wound my arms around his neck,
and laid his curly head upon my bosom, just as I would
have done had it been Johnnie, Ben, or Bertie thus
afflicted.
" Seems like you was most my mother, he said,
caressing my cheek with his soft little hand. You
don t look like her much, only I dreamed once she came
to me and loved me, as you do, and kissed my twisted
feet, oh ! so many times. It was a beautiful dream, and
next day I told it to grandma, and asked her if she wasn t
sure my mother was in heaven ! She did not answer
until I said again, " Is she in heaven ? " Then she said,
<( I hope so, Robin ; " but I wanted to know sure, and
kept on asking, until she burst out with the loudest cry
I ever heard her or anybody cry, and said, ft God knows,
my little Robin. He will take care of her. I hope she s
there ! " but she wouldn t say for sure, just as she did
when the minister and Mrs. Terry s baby died. Why
not ? Why didn t she ? Lady, you look good. You
look as if you prayed. Do you pray ?
" Yes, I answered, wondering if he would call my
careless words a prayer.
64: DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
" Then lady, and the deep eyes of blue looked eager
ly, wistfully at me, then tell me true, is my mother in
heaven, sure ?
" What could I do, I who knew nothing to warrant a
different conclusion, what could I do but answer, Yes.
He believed me, the trustful, innocent child, clapping his
hands for joy, while the picture on the wall, wholly
wrapped in the summer sunshine, seemed one gleam of
heavenly glory, as if the mother herself confirmed the
anssver given to her boy. He did not doubt me in the
least, neither did I doubt myself; Anna was safe, what
ever her sin might have been ; whether the wife of one
husband or six, like the woman of Samaria, she surely
was forgiven.
" Mrs. West had now returned, her face as calm and
placid as ever, and her voice as low and sweet.
" You have had a sad call, I fear, she said. Richard
would not like it if he knew how I had entertained you,
but I ll promise to do better next time, though I cannot
talk of Anna. Some day perhaps, you may know all,
but I would rather it should be Richard who tells you.
" She kept associating me with Richard, and though the
association was not distasteful, it puzzled me somewhat,
making me wonder if he had ever told her much of me.
" At that moment Mattie s new cook, Mrs. Felton, ap
peared, curtseying with a great deal of humility to Mrs.
West, who did not seem especially pleased to meet
DORAS DIARY CONTINUED. 65
her. Still she greeted her kindly, and suffered her to
caress Robin, whom she called a * precious lamb, a
poor, little, stunted rosy, and numerous other extrav
agant names.
" I m back to the old place, she said to Mrs. West,
when through with Robin, but my, such a change !
Tain t much such times as when you were there, I tell
you. Then we had a head ; now we ve none.
" Mrs. West stopped her at this point by asking me to
come again, and saying she did not know Mrs. Randall or
she would call on me.
" You might make the first advance, I said. You
have surely lived here longer than Mrs. Randall.
" Yes, I know/ and her pale face flushed up to her
soft grey hair. But times have changed with me. I
do not go out at all.
" Come again, Robin said, as I turned towards him ;
come again, lady ; I likes you, cause you seem some like
Papa Richard.
" It grated harshly to hear the child say Papa Richard,
and involuntarily I asked, * Why he did not say Uncle
Richard ? He is not your father, I added, while the
child s eyes grew big with wonder, as he replied :
" { Then where is my father, I d like to know?
" Mrs. Felton laughed a hateful, meaning laugh, and
said :
" Come, Miss Freeman, it s time we were going.
66 DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
t( With another good-by for Robin I shook Mrs. West s
proffered hand, and was soon out in the street with Mrs.
Felton, who, when we were at a safe distance from the
house, remarked in a very disagreeable tone :
" The cutest thing you ever did was to tell that child
not to call the doctor papa. I d have broke him of it long
before this. It don t sound well, specially after all s
been said about Mr. Richard and Miss Anna.
" I wouldn t question her, neither was there a necessity
for it, as she was bent on talking, and of the Wests, too.
" I s pose you know the doctor and his mother used to
own West Lawn ? was the next remark, which brought
to my mind the conversation between her and Mrs. West.
" Used to own West Lawn ! I repeated, surprised out
of my cool reserve.
" To be sure they did ; but, for some unaccountable
reason which nobody ever knew, they sold it about the
time Anna died, and bought the place where they live
now. Of course when a person jumps right out of a good
nest with their eyes wide open, nobody but themselves is
to blame for where they land. Mrs. West held her head
as high as the next one, drove her carriage, and used
solid silver every day, and now its all gone. I lived with
her as chamber-maid for a whole year. I was Sarah Pel
let then.
" I was too much interested to stop her, and suffered
her to go on.
DORA S DIARY CONTINUED. 67
" ( I loved Miss Anna, even if she did turn out bad.
She was the sweetest-tempered, prettiest-wayed girl you
ever seen, and when they took her to the hospital I felt
as bad as if she d died.
" To the hospital ? The lunatic asylum ? Did she go
there ? I asked ; and Sarah Felton replied :
" Oh yes ; they hoped twould cure her. Seems s if
the trouble all come to once. First, there was Robert,
Richard s twin, who went off, or was murdered, and has
never been heard of since.
((< Richard s twin brother ran off? "When? How long
ago.? How long before Anna died, T mean ? I asked,
stopping suddenly as a new light dawned upon me, only,
alas ! to fade into darkness at the answer.
" Oh, better than a year. Yes, a full year ; for he d
been gone a good spell before it was known to many. He
didn t live here ; twas in New York, and he hardly ever
come home. He was a wild one, not much like Richard,
who was engaged to Anna, and that s what I can t make
out, why he didn t marry her.
" We were crossing a common now, where there were
rustic benches beneath the trees ; and feeling that unless
I stopped I should fall, I was so faint and sick with what
I had heard, I said that I was tired ; and seating myself
upon a bench, loosened my hat-strings and leaned against
a tree, listening, while my loquacious companion contin
ued :
68 DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
" He was engaged for years, so I ve heard, and I know
he thought a sight of her. It was fairly sickish to see
em together, he with his arm round her and she a lettin
her head, with them long curls, loll on his shoulder.
They was to be married the very day she died. Twas an
awful sight. I went away from them about the time
they sent her to the hospital ; but I was back a spell, as
the chamber-maid was took sick, and so I was in it all.
Dr. Richard kissed her when she was dyin , and she whis
pered something in his ear.
" But Robin, I gasped ; Anna was surely married to
somebody.
" Again the smile I had seen before and hated curled
her lip as she answered :
" Yes, of course she was married, for she was a very
pious girl, runnin Sunday-schools, belongin to the
church, tendin to the poor, and all that.
" I knew that woman did not believe in Anna s piety,
but I did, and the belief gave me comfort as I gazed up
into the clear blue sky and said to myself, She is
there.
" Dimly I began to perceive why Mrs. West could not
tell Robin that his mother was in heaven sure ; but I was
glad I had done so, without reasoning in the least upon
the matter. I exonerated Anna, and only wrote bitter
things against poor Richard, saying to the woman, Am
Richard kissed her when she was dying ?
DOHA S DIARY CONTINUED. 69
" { Yes, up there where you sleep. That was Anna s
room, where she died, and where Robin was born. I
didn t see it, but them that told me did. Richard fell
as flat as if struck with lightning when he came up
from the office and heard what had happened, and six
hours after, when they said she was dyin and had asked
for him, he had to be carried, he was so limpsy and
weak. She never noticed the child an atom, or acted as
if there was one, but wotild whisper, Forgive, I can t
tell, I promised not. It s all right, all right. What
she meant nobody knows, for she died just that way, with
Richard s arm around her, and the doctor a-holdin him,
for he was whiter than a rag, and after she was dead
he went into a ravin fever, which lasted for weeks
and weeks, till the allopaths give him up. Then the
homopaths come in and cured him, and that s why
he turned into a sugar-pill doctor. He was one of the
blisterin and jollup kind before his sickness, but after
that he changed, and they do say he s mighty skilful. As
soon as he got well the) "Id West Lawn, and Mrs. West
has never seemed like the same woman since. Folks
thinks they s poor, though what s become of the property
nobody knows. Anyways the doctor supports his mother,
sendin her money every now and agen.
" But why, I asked, < did Mrs. Randall and Bell Yer-
ner never hear of all this?
" Easy enough, was the reply. Judge Yerner only
70 DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
moved here last fall, and Mr. Randall last spring. West
Lawn lias changed hands three times since the doctor
owned it ; so it s natural that his name shouldn t appear
in the sale. Then, it s seven years since it all happened,
and a gossiping place like Morrisville, where there are up
wards of three thousand folks, don t harp on one string
forever ; only them that was interested, like me, remem
bers.
" This was true in detail, and was a good reason why
neither Bell nor Mattie had ever heard of Anna West, I
thought, as I dragged my steps homeward, hardly knowing
when I reached there, and feeling glad that Mattie was
still confined to her bed, as this left me free to repair at
once to my own room, Anna s room, where she died,
with her head on Richard s arm, and he so weak that he
had to be supported. Poor Richard ! I do pity him,
knowing now why he so often seems sad. But what was
it ? How is it, and what makes my brain whirl so fast ?
Anna said with her dying breath that it was all right,
and I believe her. I will not cast at her a stone. She is
in heaven sure ; yes, Robin, sure. And Richard fell as
if smitten with lightning when he heard of it! That be
tokened innocence on his part. Then why this horrid
feeling? Is it sorrow that he cared for and loved her?
I don t know ; everything seems so far off that I cannot
find it. What is the record ? Let me see.
" Richard once lived here in this grand house j he has
DOKA S DIARY CONTINUED. 71
met with reverses, nobody knows what ; he has a brother
somewhere, nobody knows where ; he supports his
mother, and this accounts for what I termed his stingi
ness. How I hate myself, and how noble Dr. West
would appear were it not for, for, I cannot say it, the
horrible possibility, and I, I guess, I think, I am very
sure I did care for him more than I supposed.
" July 23d.
" I have been sick for many days, swallowing the big
gest doses of medicine, until it is a wonder I did not die.
It was a heavy cold, taken when sitting upon the com
mon, I heard Mattie tell Bell Yerner when she came in
to ask after me, and so I suppose it was, though I am
sure my head would never have ached so hard if I had
not heard that dreadful story. I have thought a great
deal while Mattie believed me sleeping, and the result of
it is this : I hate Dr. West, and never desire to see him
again ! There is something wrong, and I ve no faith in
anybody.
" There s a letter from Margaret lying on the table.
They are at the Clarendon, which is a new hotel, smaller
than either the United States or .Union Hall, but makes
up for its size in its freshness, its quiet, and air of home
like comfort. At least so Margaret says ; and although
she complains that she does not see so many people as she
would at the larger houses, she seems contented, and
72 DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
speaks in raptures of her nice large rooms and their gen
tlemanly host. I am glad she is satisfied, and that
Johnnie, at home, is, as he expresses it in a letter just re
ceived, as happy as a clam.
" Accidentally I have heard that Robin is sick and has
sent for me. I must have slept for many hours, I think :
not a heavy, stolid sleep, as I was vaguely conscious that
Mattie stole in to look at me, and that Bell Verner, too,
was here. But I did not realize it all until at last I woke
and felt that I was better. The pain from the head was
gone, and the soreness from the throat, leaving only a
pleasant, tired feeling which I rather enjoy.
" In the other room Mattie and Bell were talking, as it
seemed, of me, for I heard Mattie say :
" * I wonder if she really does care about him ?
<c I think she does, was Bell s reply, for I remember
how annoyed she was when your brother teased her by
ridiculing his peculiarities. Poor girl ! I half suspect
this has something to do with her illness. Mrs. Felton
has confessed having told her what she knew.
" She has ? When ? and Mattie seemed surprised.
" Why, returned Bell, that night I sat with Dora,
Mrs. Felton, you know, was with me a part of the time,
and once when Dora, in her disturbed sleep, was talking,
she moaned about Dr. West and Anna. " Poor lamb,
she s dwellin on the young lady who died in this very
room," Felton said; and when I inquired what young
DORA 8 DIAET CONTINUED. 73
lady, she told me all she knew, and more too, I think.
Afterwards I asked Mrs. Stryker if she ever heard of
Anna West, and she said, " Oh yes; she died just before
we came here. Everybody was talking about it ; " and
then she told her story, which, of course, differed from
Mrs. Felton s about as much as is the difference in the
social position of the two women, Felton seeing things
from her stand-point, and Mrs. Stryker repeating them
from hers. She said Mrs. West used to give elegant par
ties, and Anna was always the star of the company. Sh<s
was so beautiful and attractive that young men could not
help admiring her, while Richard loved her very much,
and nobody now believes
" I covered up my head at this point, for I would not
listen to any more. After a little I heard some one com
ing up the stairs, not quietly, soberly, as Mattie and Bell
had come, but noisily, rapidly, two steps at a time, trill
ing a few notes from some opera, and when the music
ran high, absolutely breaking into a clear, decided whistle !
I was amazed, particularly as the next moment Bell
Verne r said :
" Hush-sh ! Miss Freeman s asleep. You ll wake her
with your boy-ways !
" I don t care ! " and the whistler evidently cut a pir
ouette. I ll try to wake her, unless you tell me quick
who is the handsomest man in town, the most distingue,
for I met him just now in the street, and fell in love at
4
74 DORA8 DIARY CONTINUED.
once ! Tall, broad-shouldered, with brown, dreamy eyes,
and the whitest teeth ! Tell me quick, Bell ! You
ought to know every marriageable man between the two
poles, for here you ve been out just as many years as you
are older than I am, to wit, ten. Say, who was it ?
" Jessie, do be quiet. How do I know ? Bell began,
and then I knew the noisy girl was Bell s young sister,
Jessie, who had just been graduated in Boston, and had
of course come home.
" She was a wild, rattle-brained creature, I was sure,
but her flow of spirits suited my mood, and for the sole
purpose of seeing her I called to Bell, who, the next mo
ment, was asking anxiously what I wanted.
" I am better, I said. Am well ; and I want you
to open the blinds so I can see ; then all come in where I
can hear you talk. Who is that with the cheery whistle ?
" Eureka ! she thinks my whistle beautiful ! I heard
from the next room, while Bell replied :
" It s sister Jessie. She came last night, and has nearly
driven us wild already with her fun and spirits. She
stopped for a few days at Saratoga, and saw your sister.
Shall I call her?
" Yes, I said ; and Jessie came at once, a little fairy,
hoydendish creature, with the sauciest, merriest face, the
roundest black eyes, and a head covered with short,
black curls, which shook as she talked, and kept time
with the twinkle of her eyes.
DOHA 1 8 DIAET CONTINUED. 75
" She kissed me heartily, and then, perching herself up
on the foot of the bed, told me about Saratoga, what a
little paradise it was at the Clarendon, so clean and nice ;
what a splendid man the proprietor was, treating his
boarders as if they were invited guests ; humoring every
body s whim, even to muzzling the poor dog who barked
at night, thereby disturbing some nervous invalid, told
me too what a love of a man she thought Squire Russell.
" Mrs. Russell is your sister, she went on, and so
I say nothing of her, pro nor con, except that it must
be good pious work to live with her, and the curls and
the eyes danced together.
" I could not be angry, and the gypsy rattled on :
" But that Mr. Russell is my beaii-ideal of husbands.
I made him promise if he ever was a widower, he d take
me for his second wife. There s nothing I d like better,
I told him, than to mother his six children. You ought
to have seen my lady then ! and the queer, little face
put on a look so like Margaret s that I could not fore
bear laughing, knowing, as I did, how shocked my sister
must have been.
" " Husband," she said, " I think it s wrong to trifle
with matters so sacred ! " Whereupon the husband
meekly subsided, and fanned her connubially with the
Saratoga paper. Oh, he s a splendid fellow, but I used
to pity him evenings when I saw him standing over his
wife s chair, looking so wistfully at the dancers. She
76 DORAS DIARY CONTINUED.
wouldn t let him waltz, thought it was very improper,
and I was told made several remarks not very compli
mentary to my style of tripping the light fantastic toe.
She is rather pretty, and one night when she wore a pale
blue silk, with all her diamonds and point-lace, she was
the finest-looking woman in the room.
" She used to be very beaiitiful, 1 said, feeling that
I must defend her, but she is sadly broken, and no
wonder, six children in twelve years !
" < Yes, I know. It s perfectly dreadful, but if I had
forty children, I d let my husband waltz and smoke.
Oh, I forgot, she don t let him smoke if she knows it,
and if by chance the poor fellow drew a whiff or two
down in the office, he had to walk round the south-east
corner of the building sixteen times to air himself.
There s the gate, who s come ? and with this she bounded
from the bed and ran to the window to reconnoitre.
" As I Eve, she exclaimed, drawing back from the
window, it s the very man I told you about, and he s
coming here.
" Don t be angry with her : she s a crazy child, Bell
whispered, and I had just time to reply that I was not
angry, when the peal of the door-bell was distinctly heard,
and Jessie, by leaning over the bannisters, tried to hear
what was said.
" It s about you, and she darted back to my side.
He certainly said Miss Freeman.
DORA S DIAR7 CONTINUED. 77
" I don t know that I expected what followed, but my
breath came heavily, and I was not surprised when
Sarah, the maid, came up and handed me a card bearing
the name of Dr. West. He was in the parlor, and if I
could not go down he wished to see Mrs. Randall. In
stantly Mattie and Bell exchanged glances, while the
former said in an aside :
" Can it be the child is so sick they have sent for
him?
" What child ? I exclaimed. * Who is sick. Is it
Robin?
" Yes, Mattie answered, hurriedly. * We did not
think best to tell you when the message came, four
days ago. Robin West is very sick, and keeps asking
for the lady who said his mother was in heaven sure.
As you could not go, I went myself, learning by that
means many things concerning the family which I never
knew before. I liked Mrs. West very much. But what
shall I tell the doctor for you ?
" I felt irritated and annoyed that Mattie and Bell, and
so many, should know and talk about that story, and more
than all I was vexed that Bell should believe I cared for
the doctor, Whose heart was buried in Anna s grave, and
I answered pettishly :
" You needn t tell him anything.
" Bell looked surpiised, Jessie whistled, and Mattie
laughed, as she walked downstairs to receive her visitor.
78 DORA3 DIARY CONTINUED.
" I have only known you for half an hour, Miss Dora
Freeman, Jessie said, saucily, but if I am any judge
of the genus female-homo, you are desperately in love
with that man, and are jealous of somebody.
" Bell shot at her a warning glance, which silenced her
for a moment, and in the pause I distinctly caught the
tones of Dr. West s familiar voice, though I could dis
tinguish nothing he said. He did not stay long, and
the moment his step was heard in the hall Jessie was at
her post at the window, ready to watch him as he went
down the walk. I think Bell wanted to look out, but
she was far too proud, and in spite of Jessie s entreaties
that she would come just for a minute and say if she ever
saw a more perfectly splendid man, she sat where she
was and waited for Mattie, who soon appeared, joining
with Jessie in praises of Dr. West. The most agreeable
person she had ever met, she said, and she wondered I
had not told them about him.
" I was so unamiable that I would not even ask when
he came to Morris ville, nor why he had called ; but Jes
sie asked for me, and so I learned that he arrived at his
mother s the night previously, and in compliance with
Robin s repeated request that some one should go for
the lady, he had come himself. Robin was better, Mat-
tie said, and if no new symptoms appeared the doctor
would return to Beechwood the next day.
" All this while I asked no questions and volunteered
DORAS DIARY CONTINUED. 79
no remark, though in my own mind I resolved that so
soon as I was able, I would go to see Kobin West. I
suppose I was beginning to look tired, as Bell said they
were worrying me too long, and, after some coaxing and
scolding, she persuaded her sister to leave with her.
" Mind, now, Jessie said to me, as she stood with her
hat poised on her short, thick curls, if you are sure
you do not like this doctor, and wish to be rid of him ;
I ll take him off your hands, and thank you, too. I ve
a great mind to try the effect o my charms upon him :
shall I ? You see, I am not going to wait, like Bell, till
I verge upon the serious yellow leaf. I am going to be
married. A.U revoir ! and whistling Hail to the
Chief, she bounded down the stairs, three at a time, I
verily believe, for I trembled lest she should break her
neck, and felt relieved when her gay laugh sounded upon
the walk.
" The next thing which I heard was that Dr. West was
at Mr. Verner s, prescribing for Jessie s father, who had
hp.en taken violently ill."
CHAPTER VIH.
JESSIE S DIARY.
JULY 24th. The richest thing has happened;
the best joke I ever heard of; and I give my
self great credit for having been the direct cause
ul its happening ! If there is any one thing which father
hates more than another, it is a homoeopathic physician.
<( Quacks, humbugs, impositions, loggerheads, igno
ramuses !
" These are very mild names compared with what I ve
heard him call them, declaring he would show the door
to the first one who should ever come round him with
their two goblets, two spoons, two little plates for covers,
and one pill dissolved in a hogshead of water, half a drop
to be taken once in six hours ! That s the way he talked,
submitting to any amount of blistering, bleeding, drug
ging, and torturing, and thinking it felt nice. But I ve
played him a trick which will do him good for the re
mainder of his natui al life.
" When I came home last night from Mr. Randall s, I
found him groaning, sweating, and almost swearing with
the colic, brought on by too much fruit at dinner, fol-
by two saucers of cream. He never was in such
JESSIE S DIARY. 81
pain in his life ; he should die, he knew he should ; and
somebody must go for the doctor. Of course every ser
vant was out of sight and hearing, and so I went myself
for Dr. Lincoln, who was off in the country miles away,
and would not be home for hours. Here was a dilemma ;
and as I was wondering what to do next, I saw that par
agon of M.D. s, Dr. "West, coming down the street. In
stantly my decision was made ; and looking as anxious
as I could, I accosted him at once, begging him to go and
prescribe for my father, Judge Verner. He looked at
me a little curiously, but acceded to my request, and in
less than five minutes I had xisherecl him into the room,
where father was enacting a round of colicky gymnastics,
and where Bell looked up in wonder, actually starting to
her feet when I introduced Dr. West.
" c Dr. Lincoln was gone, and I brought this one, I
whispered to father, who was in too much pain to notice
particularly, and who thought it Dr. Lincoln s student.
" I shall need some water, a spoon, and two goblets,
the doctor said, and I hastened to execute the orders,
watching father as the stirring process went on, and al
most screaming when he swallowed the first spoonful.
" ( I m afraid it ain t strong enough, doctor. It hasn t
much taste, he said, smacking his lips, as he missed the
flavor of Dr. Lincoln s bottles.
i( We ll see what effect it has, was the doctor s reply;
and in a few moments down went another drop of the
82 JEBSIE B DIARY.
sweetened water ; then another, and another, until the
groaning and flouncing ceased, and father lay upon his
pillow as well-behaved a patient as one would wish to
see.
" He was very quiet, and after waiting half an hour the
doctor said he did not think he was needed any longer,
and wmld leave.
" Should the paroxysms return, he said to Bell, give
him six of these pills, and he placed upon the table a
tiny phial, which at once caught father s eye and set him
to raving like a madman.
" Bell ! Jessie ! he gasped, as the gate closed after
the doctor, who was that chap ? what persuasion, I
mean ? Was he a rascally
" He was in too great a rage to say the words, and so I
said it for him.
" He was a homo3Opathist, father. Didn t he help you
quick? You never groaned a groan after the third
swallow.
" Third swallow be no, I won t swear, but I will say
Thunder and Mars ! he roared ; have I been insulted
in my own house ? I won t stand it ! I ll gag, I ll
heave, I ll puke, but what I ll get rid of the stuff! Give
me water for the colic, me !
" But if the water answered the purpose, why do you
care ? Bell asked, and father gave her a look very like,
1 Et tu JSrute.
JESSIE S DIARY. . 83
" He could nob deny that he was better, that something
had helped him ; but it wasn t sweetened water ; no in
deed ; and I might heave it out of the window.
" I took up the goblet to do so, when he yelled :
" Don t be a fool because you made one of me ! Set
that glass down and bring me that phial.
" I obeyed, and he read on the little yellowish paper :
For Colic. For an adult, take six every hour. For
children from two to three, according to age. Prepared
by R. West, M.D., Beechwood.
" He read it aloud twice, then asked, Who the
was JR. West) M.D., and how the plague came he there ?
"The hurricane was over, and I ventured to explain,
asking if he were not very gentlemanly and pleasant.
" He s well enough for &foolf he replied, declaring
he should have been better without the truck ; that had
nothing to do with it.
" This morning I missed the little phial, and when I
asked where it was, father told me to mind my business,
and then I knew he had it safe in his vest pocket, a charm
against future attacks of colic. How Bell scolded when
we were alone, and how I rolled on the floor and laughed.
Bell is smitten ; I can see it in her face and manner.
She does nothing but think of Dr. West, who has re
turned to Beechwood. Will I ever see him again? and
does Dora Freeman hate or like him, which ? "
CHAPTER IX.
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S DIARY.
"BEECITWOOD, July.
DID not see Dora after all, and I had thought
so much about it, feeling, I am afraid, more
than willing that Robin should be sick, and so
give me an excuse for going to Morrisville. Since re
ceiving that little note from Dora, I have frequently
dared to build castles of what might some day be, for
something in that message led me to hope that I am not
indifferent to her. The very fact that she answered my
informal letter asking the loan of a book would prove it
so, so I sit and think and wonder what the future has in
store for me, until my patients are in danger of being neg
lected.
" Poor Robin, I fear he is not long for this world, and
when I remember how perfectly helpless he is, and must
always remain, I say to myself:
" It is well that the child should follow the mother,
f indeed, as Dora told him, she is in heaven sure?
" Darling Dora, I am glad you told him so. You have
no reason to think otherwise. Does Dora know how
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S DIARY. 85
much I once loved Anna ? I fancy not, and yet there
are those in Morrisville who remember the sad story,
but she is not thrown much in their society. The
Randalls and Yerners and Strykers form a circle into
which outsiders are not often admitted. I liked that
Mrs. Randall, and so did mother. How familiar the old
place looked to me, and how natural it seemed that 1
should be there, and Dora too. Will she ever be the
mistress of ray home ? If so, that home I know will
not be West Lawn, but there is still a cherished hope of
one day redeeming that old homestead of which she talks
so much. Then, Dora, brown-eyed, brown-haired Dora,
your little feet shall dance again upon the greensward and
your merry laugh awaken the echoes of the olden time.
Dear Dora, I trust she is not very sick, and I wish I
could have seen her.
" Judge Verner, by what chance came I in his pres
ence, and that of his regal daughter Bell ? I suspected
then I was the victim of a joke, perpetrated by that
saucy-looking, black-eyed elf, whom they called Jessie,
and now I am sure of it, for here this morning comes a
letter from the judge, worthy, I think, to be preserved
as a curiosity.
" Mr. West, he writes, with the Mr. heavily under
scored, as if to make it doubly evident that he ignored
the title of Dr. in my case : Enclosed find five dollars
for professional services rendered to self July 22d. If
86 EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S DIARY.
I hadn t had such a confounded stomach-ache I suppose
I should have marched you out-doors in double-quick
time, as that is what I ve threatened to do with all kinds
of quacks ; but I m glad I didn t, as my remembrance of
you is that you are a gentleman, even if you have a soft
spot in the brain. Jessie, that s my youngest, insists
that your spoon victuals did me good, and prides herself
on having cajoled you into the house, but she needn t
tell me ; I know better. Bell, too, that s my eldest,
has partially gone over to the enemy, but I ll stick to my
principles. It s all a piece of tomfoolery, though if you ll
never breathe a word of it to Bell, nor Jessie, there is
something about those paltry little pills in that phial that
will stop the tallest kind of a gripe ! I d like to know
you better, young man, and so would my daughters.
Come here in the autumn, when the shooting is fine.
We have splendid woods for hunting, if you enjoy it.
" e Yours truly,
" THOMAS VERNER.
" This is a judge s letter, and I rather like him for it.
He is not to be convinced in a hurry, but those little
pills will do the work. I d like to know him better, and
his daughters too. There was something fascinating in
that haughty Bell s manner, while the mischievous
Jessie attracted me at once. I may some time improve
the acquaintance commenced under so very singular cir
cumstances."
CHAPTER X.
DORA S DIARY.
T seems to me a year since I last wrote, and yet
tis only three short weeks. But in that time
so much has happened that I scarcely can real
ize it at all. Morrisville was very lonely after the doctor
left, and but for that wild Jessie, who keeps one so con
stantly stirred up, I could hardly have borne the loneli
ness. She is so full of life, and she has made me laugh
so much as she described her father s conversion to
homoeopathy, and then went off into ecstasies over Dr.
West.
" But there came a day when even the gleeful Jessie s
laugh was hushed, and her merry eyes were dim with
tears, as she helped me array a little crippled form for the
grave. Robin is dead ! I can write about it now, can
speak of the darling composedly, but at first the thought
of him brought a great choking sob, and I could only
weep, so fast he grew in my love during the few days I
watched over him. He was worse I heard, and in spite
of Mattie s assertion that I was not able to endure it, I
went to see him. Nor was I sorry when I met the look
88 DORAS DIARY.
of love which beamed in his soft blue eyes, as folding his
arms around my neck, he said :
" I knew you d come, for I asked God would He send
you to little Robin, and He did. You ll stay, too, won t
you, till Robin s dead ? and you ll tell me again of my
mother in heaven ?
" I might not have stayed with him to the last, but for a
dream I had that night, in which Anna came to me, her
robes all white and pure as are the robes of the redeemed,
a halo of glory round her head, and a look of love in her
eyes as she bent over me and said :
" There s a little harp in heaven waiting for my boy,
and ere many days his baby hands will sweep its golden
strings ; but till that time arrives, he wants you, Dora
Freeman, wants you to lead him down into the river,
across whose waters I shall wait to meet him. For
Richard s sake, you ll go.
" The beautiful vision faded from my view, and I awoke
from what seemed more reality than a dream.
" Not for Richard s sake, I said, but for Anna s ;
and so next day I went again to where the little sick boy
lay, watching and waiting for me.
" I don t call him Papa Richard now, he said, when
my wrappings were removed, and I sat down beside him.
* I told him what you said, that he was not my father,
and he told me, " No, Robin, I am not," but he wouldn t
DORAS DIAR7. 89
say where papa was. Do you know, lady, is he in
heaven, too ?
" I could not tell, and I tried to divert his mind into
some other channel, getting him to speak of Richard, and,
vain girl that I was, laying ingenious snares for ascer
taining if Richard had mentioned me when he was home.
" He talked of " Dora." Is that you, and may I call
you so ? Robin said, in reply to my direct interrogation
as to what Richard had talked about ; and so after that I
was Dora to the child, who would scarcely let another
wait upon him. You seem like mother. You ll stay,
he kept repeating, when Mattie came at nightfall after
me.
" I thought of Anna in my dream ; thought of the little
golden harp, and stayed, while people talked, as people
will, wondering what kept me at that child s sick-bed, and
associating me at last with Richard, for whose sake they
said I had turned nurse to Robin. This piece of gossip
proved the resurrection of the old story, which was told
and retold in a thousand different forms, until madcap
Jessie Verner threatened to box the first one s ears
who should say Anna West to her again. This she told
me herself, watching with me by Robin, and that was all
that passed between us on the subject. It seemed to be
tacitly xmderstood that neither Mattie, Bell, nor herself
were to speak of the story to me, and they did not.
Somehow it would have been a great relief to know just
90 DORA 8 DIARY.
what they thought, but I would not ask, and on this
point surrounded myself with so strong a barrier of re
serve, that they never tried to break it down.
" Jessie had come to Mrs. West s unsolicited, and it was
strange how the quiet, sad woman opened her heart at once
to receive the wild young creature, while Robin turned
to her trustingly, and whispered when she was gone :
" ( I don t mind her seeing my feet. She laughs at
most everything, but she wouldn t at my poor, twisted
toes.
" Precious Robin ! I would he could have seen the gush
of tears with which Jessie baptized those twisted toes
when first the shrivelled things met her view ; but he
was then where the halt and maimed are made whole, and
the feet which here had never stepped a step were tread
ing the golden streets. It was strange that one so young
should be so sensitive about his deformity, but he had
been so from the time he first learned that he was lame,
and when, sitting in his chair upon the lawn, he would
often ask his grandmother if she supposed the passers-by
guessed that he was not like them.
" It is frequently the case that a deformity of the body
manifests itself in the expression of the face, but it was
not so with him. A more beautiful face I never saw, and
I loved to watch it as he lay sleeping upon his pillow,
wondering if the mother could have been as beautiful as
the child, and then speculating bitterly upon the father,
DORAS DIARY. 91
wherever he might be. I had said in my heart that I
exonerated Richard, but at times I experienced a feeling
which I called hatred for the man whom Mrs. West was
almost hourly expecting, and who, when he came, found
me with Robin on my lap, his head nestled upon my
bosom ; while I sang to him of the Heavenly City, where
his mother waited for him.
" It was just at the setting of the sun that I heard the
coach stop before the gate, and a rapid step upon the
walk. My voice must have trembled, for Robin unclosed
his eyes as if to ask the cause, but I hushed him gently,
while in the adjoining apartment a low conversation was
carried on for twenty minutes or more. At last the
doctor started for the room where I was sitting, but I
gave no sign of consciousness until he was close beside
me and I met the glance of his eyes, a glance in which for
an instant I fancied I read more than a friendly interest ;
the blood surged hotly through my veins ; but thoughts
of Anna, whom dying he had kissed, holding her as I had
held Robin, froze it back from my face, which must have
turned very white, for after his first words of greeting,
he said to me, * I cannot thank you enough for what you
have been to mother. She has told me of your kindness ;
but Dora, and his hand touched my hair lightly, I fear
you are overtaxing your strength. You are very pale
to-night. Let me relieve you of Robin.
" I was not tired, I said, and my manner was so chilling
92 DORAS DIAR7.
that his hand slid from my hair, while he began speak
ing to Robin, who only complained of weariness.
" I am glad you have come, Uncle Richard, Robin
said, putting out his thin fingers and playing with the
heavy beard of the doctor, who had knelt beside me the
better to see the child. I call you uncle all the time
because Dora wanted me to.
" Instantly our eyes met, and I saw his face crimson
with emotions whose nature I could not guess. I only
knew they hardened me into stone, and I was glad when
at last Jessie came in, for she relieved me from all neces
sity of talking. Richard liked Jessie ; her sprightly
manner amused and rested him, I could see, and it made
me half angry to hear how merrily he laughed at her re
marks, even when he knew that Robin s days were num
bered. How I clung to that child, refusing to give him
to the care of Mrs. West. He could not lie upon the
bed, and I felt a kind of fierce pleasure in holding him,
and in knowing that Richard knew what I was doing for
Anna s child.
" Slowly the summer night darkened around us, and
the August moon cast its beams across the floor, even to
where I sat singing the low lullaby. And out upon the
piazza Dr. West and Jessie talked and laughed together,
until the sick boy whispered moaningly, It s very cold
and dark in here. Cover me closer, Dora, and light the
candles now.
DORA S DIARY. 93
"I covered him up, and saw upon his face a shadow,
whose import I could not mistake, and half bitterly, half
reproachfully, I exclaimed:
" ( Dr. West, if you can spend the time, I think Robin
needs you.
" He was at my side in an instant, and so was Jessie ;
her eyes filling with tears when she, too, saw and recog
nized the shadow which had alarmed me. Robin was
dying ! We all knew it now, and Robin knew it, too,
and still refused to leave me for the arms which Richard
stretched out to him.
" It s nicer here, he said, and there was a world of
love in the soft blue eyes as he nestled closer to me.
I guess I m dying. It s all so dark and queer. Is it very
far to heaven, and will I lose the way ?
" No, darling, for Jesus will go with you, Richard
answered, now pressing so close to Robin that his
shoulder touched mine, and I felt his breath upon my
hair.
" And I won t be a cripple any more ? I ll walk in
heaven, and mother s there sure? was the next re
mark, to which there came no response, except a moan
from Mrs. West, until I answered :
" Yes, sure, Itobin, sure?
" I ll tell her how good you was, and how much I
loved you, too. What shall I say for you, Grandma
West ? What word shall I carry mother ?
94 , DORAS DIARY.
" Mrs. "West was weeping bitterly, with her head upon
the pillow, where Robin s had lain so long, and when he
thus addressed her, she answered :
" Tell her, if you meet her, how I mourned for her till
my hair all turned white, and tell her how if in thought
I ever wronged her, I am so sorry now.
" I ll tell her, Robin whispered ; and you, Uncle
Richard, what for you ?
" The doctor s frame shook, and his face was white as
ashes as he was thus appealed to for a message to the
dead, but he did not speak until Robin twice repeated,
And what for you ?
" Then with a sob, he said :
" Nothing, Robin ; nothing from me.
" Why ! didn t you love my mother ? the dying boy
asked, the look of surprise for a moment mastering the
look of death upon his face.
" Yes, he did, I said. He loved her better than
his life. He loves her still. Tell her so.
"Again my eyes met those of Dr. West, but in the ex
pression of his there was something which subdued all
my pride, and brought a rain of tears upon my face. I
did not longer refuse to let him. take the child, nor did
Robin refuse to go ; and I leaned back in my chair sick
and faint, while that great struggle went on between
death and the little life whose lamp had burned so
feebly.
DORA S DIAR7. 95
" It was not long, but while it lasted I knew that Rich
ard was praying softly, and that his words were soothing
to the sufferer, who suddenly exclaimed:
" I see my mother 1 She s like the picture in the
frame ! She s waiting for me over there where the banks
are so green ! She is in heaven sure ; but I don t see
my father anywhere ! He is not there ! Oh, where is
my father ?
" That was the last ; and two hours later, Robin lay
quietly upon his couch, his golden curls all smooth and
shining, just as Jessie had made them, his blue eyes
closed, his tiny hands folded upon his bosom, his poor,
crippled feet hidden from curious sight.
" That night I began to love Jessie Verner, and so I
fancied did Dr. West. All her levity was gone for the
time, and in its place there came a tender, motherly
manner, which brooded over and encircled all in its
careful forethought. Even Mrs. West became a very
child in the hands of this girl of eighteen, while Richard,
too, was brought within her influence. He was weary
with his long ride of a hundred and thirty miles, but no
one save Jessie seemed to think of this. She remem
bered everything, and when I would have worried Mrs.
West with questions as to where Robin s clothes were
kept, she hushed me gently, going about the house in
quest of what was needed, with as much assurance as if
she had been the daughter instead of a perfect stranger.
96 DORAS DIARY.
It was Jessie who made Richard lie upon the lounge in
tho quiet sitting-room ; Jessie who arranged his pillows
for him, covering him up with his travelling-shawl, and
then brought him tea and toast she herself had made,
and which he so much needed after his wearisome ride.
I did not marvel that he followed her movements with
eyes in which I read, as I believed, more than an ordinary
interest ; while at me, still keeping a useless watch by the
dead boy, he seldom glanced. There was a pang at my
heart which I suppose was jealousy, though I did not so
define it, and I rather enjoyed thinking that Anna, and
Robin, and myself, were in some way wronged by this
new interest of Richard s. I had cared for Robin to the
last, but with his life my usefulness had ceased. I was
not needed longer, I thought, and so next morning I
went home, saying to Mrs. West and Richard, when they
asked if I would soon be back :
" I shall attend the funeral, of course. There in no
necessity for coming before. Jessie will do everything.
" Mrs. West did not urgfe. me to return, neither did
Richard, but he went with me to the gate, opening it for
me, and then, standing a moment as if there was some
thing he would say, You do look tired, Dora, more so
than I thought. You are not strong enough for all you
have gone through. I think I must prescribe, and he
took my hand to feel the quickened pulse. You are
feverish, he continued. You ought to rest, but we
DORA S DIARl. 97
shall miss you so much. It s a comfort to know you aie
here.
" I was very foolish, very nervoxis, and the tears started,
but I dashed them away, and taking the offered medicine,
answered back, I leave to Jessie the task of comforter.
She will do better than I.
" The next moment I was walking rapidly down the
street, never looking back until the corner was reached,
when, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the doctor still
standing where I had left him, leaning upon the gate. I
never remember a time when I was so childish, or more
unhappy, than I was that day and the following, which
last was the day of Robin s funeral. There was no pa
rade, no display, only a few friends and neighbors, with
Jessie, presiding genius, telling everybody what to do,
while, stranger than all, Judge Verner himself was there
as director, his carriage bearing Mrs. West and Richard
to the grave where they buried Robin.
" There was something in the young man which he liked,
tf
he said, even if he was a fool, and so he had offered no
objections to Jessie s proceedings, and was himself doing
what he could for the family. There was room in the
carriage for four, and greatly to my surprise the Judge
whispered to me :
" That chap they call Doctor wants you to go with
them. He says, next to his mother, the child loved you
die best.
5
98 DORAS DIART.
ft I was very faint for an instant, and then shrinking
back into the corner I answered no, so decidedly that the
judge hastened away, repeating his ill success to Richard,
who had risen, and with his mother on his arm was ad
vancing to the door. As he passed me he stopped, and
reaching his hand said gently, Dora, come with us ; for
Robin s sake.
"I could not resist that voice, and I went forward tak
ing his other arm, and so out into the yard, past the
groups of people who speculated curiously as to why Miss
Freeman should go with the chief mourners. Behind us
came Mr. Randall s carriage, with Mattie, and Bell, and
Jessie, and that in a measure relieved me of my rather
awkward position.
<c Mother, Richard said, as we drew near the cemetery,
it is seven years to-day since Anna died. Do you re
member ?
" Yes, she answered sadly, while I remembered that
seven years ago was also to have been his bridal.
" Did he think of it as we wound round the gravelled
road, past the willow and the cedar, past the box, the
pine, and fir, to where Anna lay sleeping ? Did he look
back with anguish and regret to that other day, when,
with the August sunshine falling upon him as it was fall
ing now, he listened to the solemn words, Ashes to
ashes, dust to dust, and heard the cold earth rattle
down upon the coffin-lid ? Yes, he did, I was sure, and
DORA S DIART. 99
this was what blanched his cheeks so white and made his
lips quiver so, as we returned to the carriage and were
driven from the yard, leaving Anna and Robin there alone.
" That afternoon I was restless and wretched. I could
not remain quietly in any place, but wandered uneasily
about until near nightfall, when I stole out unobserved
and took my way to the burying-ground, where Anna
and Robin were. Just outside the iron railing which en
closed their graves there was a rude, time-worn seat,
placed upon the grass-plat years ago, it would seem, from
the names and dates carved upon it. Here I sat down,
and leaning my face upon my hand, tried to think of all
that had transpired since I had come to Morrisville.
Had I known all I was to see and hear, would I have
wished to come ? I asked myself ; but could find no satis
factory answer. I was glad I had known Robin, for his
memory would be a sacred thing to me, and I said I was
glad I had heard of Anna ere, I learned to think too
much of Richard. Then thoughts of Jessie arose, and I
said aloud, Can he ever forget Anna, who died in his
arms?
" No, Dora, I shall never forget her, neither can I
mourn for her always, as I mourned when we first laid
her here, and I sat nearly all the night just where you
are sitting, watching the stars as they held their first vigil
over Anna s grave, and almost impiously questioning
the Providence which had dealt so strangely with me.
100 DORAS DIARY.
t( I knew it was Richard s voice speaking to me, and 1
gave a little start of surprise, but did not lose a word
which he had spoken.
" I half believed I should find you here, he said, sit
ting down beside me, and drawing a little more about my
neck the shawl which had fallen off. Something told
me I should find you, and so I came quite as much to
join the living as the dead. Dora, you will forgive the
familiarity, I never called you so at home, but here,
where you have done me and mine so much good, you
will surely let me use a name which mother and Robin
adopted.
" I bowed, and he went on.
" You do not know how glad I am that you were with
us when Robin died, or how it lessens the smart to have
you sitting with me in sight of Robin s grave.
" And Anna s ? I said, looking at him fo the first
time.
" Yes, Anna s, he continued in the same kind tone ;
and it is of her I would tell you, Dora, and he spoke
hurriedly now. How much do you know of Anna, and
who told you ?
" Sarah Felton ; and I know more than I wish I did,
I answered, my voice full of tears, which I could not re
press.
" Felton ! he repeated in dismay. Unless her rep
utation for veracity has improved, I would not vouch for
DORA S DIARY. 101
the truth of what she might say, though she liked Anna.
Shall I tell you her history, Dora ?
" I knew it would cost him a mighty effort to do so, but
I must hear the story. I should never be happy till I
had, and I answered eagerly :
* Yes, tell me of Anna.
CHAPTER XI.
RICHARD S STORY.
E was very white, and his voice trembled, while
his eyes had in them the far-off look I had once
or twice observed before.
" There are some things in our family history, he be
gan, which I shall omit, as they have nothing in partic
ular to do with Anna and myself. For instance, you
know, perhaps, that we once lived at West Lawn in differ
ent circumstances from what mother is living in now, and
that we suddenly sold the place, purchasing a smaller one,
and living in a cheaper, plainer way. Why we did this I
need not say, except that Anna was in no way connected
with it.
" She was my adopted sister ; and she came to us when
only six years old. I was twelve, as was my twin-brother
Robert. He went from us years ago, and has never been
heard from since. We fear he is dead, and the uncer
tainty is killing my mother. I shall soon be all alone.
But I was telling you of Anna, who grew so fast into our
hearts, my brother and I quarrelling for the honor \>t
drawing her to school. This was in her childhood, but as
she grew older Robert professed to care less for her than
RICHARD S STORY. 103
I. " She was a doll-baby," he said ; " a compound of red
and white, and yellow curls." He would not even ac
knowledge that she was beautiful, but said she could not
compare with the maidens of New York, where he went
to live when Anna was fourteen and we were twenty.
His coldness troubled me at first, but when I came to
think of her as something dearer than a sister, I was
glad that he so seldom came to Morrisville, for he was far
finer-looking than I am. Put us side by side, and nine
teen out of twenty would have given him the preference.
But he did not care for Anna, and when she was sixteen
I asked her to be my wife. It was here, too, Dora, on
this very bench, where you are sitting with me, and it
was eleven years ago this very day.
" Something most always happens to me on this day
something which leaves its impress on my mind. One
year ago we went to that picnic by the lake. Do you re
member it, Dora ?
" Yes," I gasped, while my cheeks burned painfully.
Yes, but go on with Anna.
" He was silent a moment, and then continued :
" l We were in the habit of coming here to sit, she little
dreaming how near we were to the spot of earth where
she would ere long be lying. I have told you that I asked
her to be my wife, but I have not told you how much I
loved her, for I did oh, so much, so much ! And she
was worthy of my love. Whatever happened afterward
104: BICHAKD S STORY.
she was worthy then. You have seen her picture. It
hardly does her justice, for no artist can ever give a cor
rect idea of what that face was when lighted up with life,
and health, and love. I have never seen a face one-half
as beautiful as Anna s. She knew that she was beautiful,
but it did not make her vain, for she knew that God had
given her the dangerous gift of beauty, and she tried to
keep His gift unsullied, just as she tried to keep her heart
pure in His sight. I cannot think of a single fault she
had unless it were that she sometimes lacked decision, and
was too easily swayed by those in whom she had confi
dence. But in all essential points she was right, serving
God with her whole soul, and dedicating herself early to
His service.
" Then why, I exclaimed, when Robin asked if, she
was in heaven sure, why did you hesitate to tell him
yes?
"A look of pain contracted his features as he re
plied :
" I am speaking of Anna as she was when I asked her
to be my wife. We read of angels falling, then why not
a mortal man ? though Heaven knows that I cannot fully
believe that Anna fell. I could not live if I believed it.
Mother s religious creed and mine differ in one point,
although we profess the same holy faith. To me a child
of God is a child forever, just as no act of mine can make
me cease to be my mother s son. But to go on. I loved
RICHARW8 STORY. 105
her with my whole soul, and I told her so, while for a
moment she made no reply, except to lay her head upon
my arm and weep. Then lifting up her eyes she said she
was too young to know her own mind yet ; that she loved
me, and always had, like a brother at first, but latterly
in a different way, and if I would not require her to be
my wife at once, and would promise to release her should
she ever come to think that she could not be mine, she
would answer yes. And so we were engaged.
" After that I seemed to tread on air, so happy and so
full of anticipation was my whole being. I had been
graduated the previous year, anjd I was then a student in
Dr. Lincoln s office, but I boarded at Home, and saw
Anna every day, counting the hours from the time I left
her in the morning until I returned late in the afternoon
to our fashionabje dinner, for we observed such matters
then. I shut my eyes at times, and those days come back
again, bringing with them Anna as she used to look when
she came out to meet me, her curls falling about her child
ish face, and her white robes giving her the look of an
angel. I loved her too much. I almost placed her be
fore Him who has declared He will have no idols there,
and so I was terribly punished. We were to be married
on her twentieth birthday, and until about a year previous
to that time I had not the shadow of a suspicion that
Anna s love was not wholly my own. I well remember
the time, a dreary, rainy autumn day, when she came
106 RTCHA1W8 STORY.
nto my room, and leaning one hand on my shoulder,
parted my hair with the other, as she was woiit to do.
" " Richard," she began, " isn t it just as wicked to act
a lie as it is to tell one ? "
" " I supposed it was," I said, and she continued :
" " Then you won t be angry when I tell you what I
must. I was very young when I promised to be your
wife, and I am afraid I did not quite know what I was
doing. I love you dearly, Richard, but you seem more
like my brother ; and, Richard, don t turn so white and
tremble so, I shall marry you if you wish it ; but please
don t, oh ! don t"
" She was weeping bitterly now, was on her knees
before me, my Anna, my promised wife. I had thought
her low-spirited for some days, but had no thought of
this, and the shock was a terrible one. I could not,
however, see her so disturbed, when I had the power to
relieve her, and after talking with her calmly, dispassion
ately, I released her from the engagement and she was
free. I did not even hint at the possibility of her learn
ing to love me in time, because I fancied she would be
more apt to do so if wholly untrammelled ; but that hope
alone kept my heart from breaking during the wretched
weeks which followed, and in which A.nna s health
seemed failing, and her low spirits to increase. A
hange of air was proposed, and she was sent to Boston,
my mother has relatives. It was on the eve of
RICHARDS STOR7. 107
the new year when she came back to us, with a white,
scared look upon her face, which became at last habitual,
making it painful to look at her, she appeared so nervous
and frightened. It was as if some great terror were
continually haunting her, or some mighty secret, which
it was death to divulge and worse than death to cover
up. I supposed it to be a fear of what I might require
of her, and so I said to her one day that if the thing
preying upon her mind was a dread lest I should seek to
make her my wife, she might put that aside, as I should
not annoy her in that way.
" Never to my last hour shall I forget the look in her
eyes, a look so full of anguish and remorse, that I
turned away, for I could not meet it.
" " O, Richard," she moaned, drawing back so I could
not touch her, "you don t know how wretched I am.
It almost seems as if God had forgotten that I did try to
serve Him, Bichard. What is the unpardonable sin?
Is it to deceive ? "
" I thought she referred to her relations with me, and
I tried to soothe her agitation, telling her she had not
deceived me ; that she had told me frankly how she felt ;
that she was wholly truthful and blameless.
" With a cry which smote cruelly on my ear, she
exclaimed :
" " No, no, you kill me ! Don t talk so ! I am not
blameless ; but, oh ! I don t know what to do ! Tell me,
LOS RICHARD S STORY.
Richard, tell me, which is worse, to deceive, or break a
solemn vow ? "
" * I had no idea what she meant, and without directly
answering her questions I tried to quiet her, but it was
a useless fcisk. She only wrung her hands and sobbed
more passionately, saying God had cast her off, and she
was lost forever. This seemed to be the burden of her
grief for many days, and then she settled down into a
stony calm, more terrible than her stormy mood had
been, because it was more hopeless. She did not talk to
us now except to answer questions in monosyllables, and
would sit all day by the window of her chamber, looking
afar off as if in quest of some one who never came.
" We thought when she came home that we had as
much as we could bear, for a domestic calamity had over
taken us, involving both ruin and disgrace, unless it
were promptly met; but in our concern for Anna, we
forgot the other trouble, else we had fainted beneath the
rod. At last the asylum was recommended, and the first
of March we carried her there, taking every precaution
that her treatment should be the kindest and most con
siderate.
" How long ago was that? I asked, starting sud
denly, as a memory of the past swept over me.
" Seven years, he replied, and I continued :
" Was it in Utica ? If so, I must have seen her, for
seven years this summer Mrs. Randall and I visited a
RICHARD S STORY. 109
schoolmate in Utica, and one day we went from curiosity
to the lunatic asylum, but I did not see a face like Anna s
in the portrait. Oh yes, and I started again, I re
member now a young girl with the most beautiful golden
hair, but her face was resting on the window-sill, and
she would neither look up nor answer my questions,
that was Anna, and in my excitement I could scarcely
control myself to listen, while Richard continued :
" It is possible, and seems like her, as she would not
answer any one.
" Every two weeks mother and I visited her, but after
the first time she never spoke to us, but tried to hide
away where we could not see her. She gave them no
trouble whatever, as she seldom left her chair by the
window, where she sat the live-long day, looking west
ward, just as she did at home. She had written one
letter, they said, and when we asked to whom, the
matron could only remember that she believed it was to
California, adding that the attendant who then took the
letters to the ofiice had sickened since and died. It was
to some imaginary person, no doubt, she said, and so
that subject was dismissed by my mother, but I could
not so soon forget it, and when next I visited her, I said
abruptly :
" " Anna, what correspondent have you in Cali
fornia?"
" * Instantly her face was pallid with fear, and she fell
HO RICHARD S STORT.
at my feet senseless. This was a mystery upon which
I dwelt day and night, finding no solution whatever to
it, and forgetting it at last as the terrible tragedy drew
to a close.
" Late in July mother went again to visit Anna, and
when she returned her hair was almost as white as you
now see it, while her whole appearance was indicative of
some great, crushing sorrow which had fallen suddenly
upon her. Anna had asked to be taken home, she said,
had fallen on her knees, and clasping her dress had
kissed it abjectly, crying piteously, "Home, mother;
take poor Anna home ; let her die there."
" It was the first time she had spoken to us in months,
and we could not refuse. So she came, the seventh day
of August, travelling by railroad to the station, and
coming the remainder of the way in our carriage. Her
.last fancy was that she could not walk, and I met her at
our gate, carrying her into the house and upstairs to her
old room, which had been made ready for her. As I
laid her upon the bed, she clasped her arms tightly
round my neck, and whispered, " God has forgiven me,
Richard, will you ? "
" I kissed her, and then went down to mother, who
needed my services more than Anna, and who lay all
that evening on the lounge as white and rigid as stone.
The next day I saw a good deal of Anna, and hope whis
pered that she was getting better. The scared, wild
RICHARDS STORY. Ill
look was gone, and a bright, beautiful color burned
upon her cheeks. Her hair, which had been cut, was
growing out again more luxuriant than ever, and curled
in short ringlets about her head. She talked a little,
too, asking if we had ever heard from Robert, and bid
ding me tell him, when he came back, that she spoke
kindly of him before she died. This was the eighth.
The next day was her birth-day, the one fixed upon for
our bridal. I do not know if she remembered it, but I
thought of nothing else as the warm, still hours glided
]:y } aii to myself I said it may be some other day.
Anna is better. Anna will get well. Alas ! I little
dreamed of the scathing blow in store for me ; the
frightful storm which was to rage so fiercely round me,
and whose approach was heralded by the arrival of Dr.
Lincoln, who had been there before, holding private con
sultations with my mother, and looking, when he came
from them, stern, perplexed, mysterious, and sorry.
" Dora, you know what all this portended, but you
do not know, neither can you begin to guess, how heavy,
how full of agony was the blow which awaited me,
when just at nightfall I came up from the office where I
had been for several hours. " Anna was dying." This
was the message which greeted me in the hall, and like
lightning I fled up the stairs, meeting on the upper land
ing with my mother, who had grown old twenty years
since morning.
112 RICHAR&8 STORY.
" " Richard, my boy, my poor boy, can you bear it?
have they told you ? do you know ? "
" " Yes," I said, "Anna is dying. I must see her ; let
me go," and I tore away from the hands which would
have held me back until I was to some extent prepared.
" I did not heed her voice, for through the half-closed
door I caught a glimpse of Anna. She saw me, too, and
her hand was beckoning. I was half-way across the
room, when a sound met my ear which took all con
sciousness away, and for the next three hours I was in
sensible to pain. Then came the horrid waking, but the
blow had stunned me so, I neither felt nor realized as I
did afterwards. I went straight to Anna, for she was
asking for me, she from whom the rest stood aloof as
from a polluted thing. Through all the horror she had
never spoken a word, or made the slightest sound, and
this suppression of feeling was hastening her end- Noth
ing but the words, " Tell Richard to come," had passed
her lips since, and when I went to her she could only
whisper faintly, " Forgive me, Richard. It s all right,
but I promised not to tell. It s right, it s right." Then
she continued, entreatingly, " Let me lay my head on your
arm as it used to lie, and kiss me once in token of for
giveness."
" ( Dora, you are a woman, and women judge their sex
more harshly than we do, but you would not have had
me refuse that dying request ?
RICHARD S STOUT. 113
" I should hate you if you had, I sobbed, while he
continued :
" Mother made a motion of dissent. She was casting a
stone, but I did not heed her. I lifted Anna up ; I held
her on my bosom ; I pushed away the clustering curls ;
I kissed the quivering lips sueing for forgiveness and as
suring me all was right. I forgave her then and there
as I hoped to be forgiven ; I said I would care for her
baby ; I received her last injunction ; I kept her in my
arms until the^last fleeting breath went out, and when I
laid her back upon the pillow she was dead !
" Death wipes out many a stain, and Anna, by her
dying, threw over the past a veil of charity, which only
a few of the coarser, unfeeling ones ever tried to rend.
There was gossip and talk, and wonder, and pity, and
surmise, and somethin"g suspicious thrown upon me, the
more readily as people generally did not know that our
engagement had been broken; but I outlived it all, and
when, three months after Anna died, I rose from a sick
bed, and went forth among people again, they gave me
only sympathy and friendly words, never mentioning
either Anna or Robin in my presence.
" During that sickness, my opinion with regard to the
practice of medicine underwent a change, and greatly
to the horror of good old Dr. Lincoln, with whom I
studied, I became a homceopathist. This furnished me
w""th an excuse for leaving Morrisville, as I wished to
114 HTGHABJ) S STORY.
investigate that mode of treatment, and gain every possi
ble information from physicians whom I knew to be in
telligent and thorough. I went first to New York, and
after a few months commenced my new practice in
Boston ; thence, as you know, I went to Beechwood.
Once I hoped mother might be persuaded to go with me,
but she said :
" " I would rather stay here, where people know all
about it. I could not bear to be questioned concerning
Robin/
" Women are different from men ; it takes them longer
to rise above anything like disgrace, and mother has
never been what she was before Anna s death. She came
in time to love Robin dearly, but his misfortune added
to her grief, until her cup seemed more than full. Her
health is failing rapidly, and a change of place is neces
sary. For a long time past I have had it in my mind to
sell the cottage and take mother to Beechwood. A friend
of mine stands ready to purchase at any time. I saw
him two hours since, and to-morrow the papers will be
drawn which will deprive us of our home.
" And your mother! I exclaimed, will she go to
Beechwood ?
" Not at present. Not until she is better, Dora. I
am going with mother to California as soon as I can
arrange my affairs at home. I may not return for a long
time, certainly not for a year.
RICHARD S STOUT. 115
" There was a tremulousness in the tone of his voice as
he told me this, while to me the world seemed changed,
and I felt how desolate his going would leave me. Still
I made no comment, and after a moment he continued :
" And now, Dora, comes the part which to me is most
important of all. Men do not often lay bare their se
crets except to one they love ! It has cost me a great
effort to go over the past, and talk to you of Anna, but
I felt that I must do it. I must tell you that the heart
I would offer you has on its surface a scar, but, Dora,
only a scar ; believe me, only a scar. It does not quicken
now one pulse the faster when I remember Anna, who was
to have been my wife. I loved her. I lost her; and were
she back just as she used to be, and I knew you as I
know you now, I should give you the preference. You
are not as beautiful as Anna, but you are better suited
to my taste, you better meet the requirements of my
maturer manhood. I cannot tell when my love for you
began. I was interested in you from the first. I have
watched and pitied you these four years, wishing often
that I could lighten the load you bore so uncomplainingly,
and when you came away this time, life was so dreary
and monotonous that I said to myself, " Whether Dora
hears of Anna or not, I ll tell her when she returns, and
ask her to be my wife." At first I was a very coward in
the matter, and cautioned mother against revealing any
thing, but afterward thought differently. If you are to
116 RICHARD S XTORY.
be mine, there should be no concealments of that nature,
and so I have told you all, giving you leave to repeat it
if you please. There is one person whom I would par
ticularly like to know it, and that is Jessie Verner.
" The mention of that name was unfortunate, for it
roused the demon of jealousy, and when he continued:
" Dora, will you be my wife ? Will you give me a
right to think of and love you during the time I am ab
sent ?
" I answered pettishly:
" If I say no, would you not be easily consoled with
Jessie ? You seem to admire her very much.
" While he was talking to me he had risen, and now he
was leaning against the iron fence, where he could look
me directly in the face, and where I, too, could see him.
As I spoke of Jessie, an amused expression flitted over
his features, succeeded by one more serious as he re
plied :
i( I never supposed Jessie could be won even if I
wished to win her, flut now that I am at the confessional,
I will say that next to yourself Jessie Verner attracts
and pleases me more than any one with whom I have
met since Anna died. There is about her a life and
sparkle which would put to rout a whole regiment of
blues, while her great kindness to mother and Robin
show her to be a true, genuine woman at heart. I have
seen but little of her. I admire her greatly, and had I
RICHARD S STORY. 117
never met you, Dora, I might have turned to Jessie.
Surely this should not make you jealous.
" I knew it should not, but I think I must have been
crazy ; certainly I was in a most perverse, unreasonable
mood, and I answered :
" * I am not jealous, but I have seen your great admira
tion for Jessie, and if on so short an acquaintance you
jike her almost as well as you do me, whom vou have
known for years, it would not take long for you to like
her better, so I think it wise for you to wait until you
know your mind.
" I wonder he did not leave me at once ; he did move
away quickly, saying :
l< It is not like you, Dora, to trjJfle thus. You either
love me or you do not. I cannot give you up willingly.
You are tired, weak, excited, and you need not answer me
now, though I hoped for something different. I shall
think of you, love you, pray for you, while I am gone,
and possibly write to you ; then, when I return, I shall
repeat the question of to-day, and ask you again to be my
wife.
" He was perfectly collected now, and something in his
manner awed me into silence. The sun had already set,
and the night dews beginning to fall. He was the first
to notice it, and with tender care he drew my shawl a
second time about my neck, and then taking my arm in
his, led me away from Anna s grave out into the streets,
118 RICHARD S STORT.
where more than one turned to look inquiringly after us,
whispering their surmise that we were really engaged.
" He stayed in Morrisville three days after that, and
Mattie invited him to tea, with Judge Verner s family
and Dr. Lincoln. He came, as I knew he would, but the
judge and the doctor kept him so constantly talking of
homoeopathy that I hardly saw him at all till just as he
was going, when he held my hand in his own and looked
into my eyes so kindly that I could scarcely keep back
the tears which would have told him that I loved him
now, and he need not wait a year. A bad headache had
prevented Bell from coming, and as the judge was called
away on business, the doctor walked home with Jessie,
while I watched them as far as I could see, feeling myself
grow hot and angry when I saw how Jessie leaned upon
his arm, and looked up in his face as confidingly as a
child.
" Remembering that he wished her to know of Anna, I
tried one day to tell her, but she knew it already from
Mrs. West, and exonerated Richard from all blame.
She is at the cottage a great deal, and Mattie thinks her
greatly interested in Dr. West. I wish he had not said
that next to me he preferred Jessie, for it haunts me con
tinually, and makes me very unamiable."
CHAPTER XII.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
Tdegram to Dora Freeman, Morrisville.
" SARATOGA, August 25th.
" Come immediately. Madge is very sick, and cannot possibly
live. " JOHN RUSSELL.
HIS is the telegram which I received this morn
ing, and to-morrow I am going to poor Mar
garet. God grant she may not be dead ! Dear
sister, what would I not give if I had never written those
dreadful things of her in my journal. Poor Margaret !
her married life has not been very happy with all those
children born so fast, and if she lives how much I will
love her to make amends for the past. My trunks are
packed and standing in the hall, and I am looking, for
the last time it may be, on the woods and hills of
Morrisville, where the moonlight is falling so softly. I
can see a little of the cemetery in the distance, and I
know where Anna s grave is so well. I have been there
but once since that day, and then I found Jessie with
Mrs. West planting flowers over Piobin. Mrs. West
loves that young girl, and so do I, in spite of what the
doctor said j but she does shock me with her boyish,
120 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
thoughtless manners, actually -whistling John Brown
as she dug in the yellow Jirt. Jessie is a queer com
pound. She and her father and Bell are going on with
me to Saratoga. Oh, if Dr. West could be there too, he
would cure Margaret. I have been half tempted to tele
graph, but finally concluded that brother John would do
so if desirable. Poor John ! what will he do if he is left
alone ? and does Jessie remember the foolish thing she
said about his second wife ? I trust not, for that would
be terrible, and Margaret not yet dead.
"CLARENDON HOTEL, SAKATOGA. )
August 30th. )
" My heart will surely break unless I unburden it to
some one, and so I come to you, my journal, to pour out
my grief. Margaret is dead ; and all around, the gay
world is unchanged ; the song and the dance go on the
same as if in No. there were no rigid form, no pale
Margaret gone forever, no wretched husband weeping
over her, no motherless little children left alone so
early.
" It was seven when we reached Saratoga, and I
stepped from the car into the noisy, jostling crowd which
Judge Verner pushed hither and thither in his frantic
efforts to find his baggage, and secure an omnibus. How
sick of fashionable life it made me, to see the throng
upon the sidewalks and in front of the hotels, as we drove
along the streets, and how anxiously I looked up at all
THE 8HADO W OF DEATH. 121
the upper windows as we stopped before the Clarendon,
saying to myself, Is this Margaret s room, or that ?
" I knew there was a group of men on the piazza, and
remembering how curiously new-comers are inspected, I
drew my veil before my face and was following Judge
Verner, when Jessie suddenly exclaimed, * Perfectly
splendid ! and the next moment my hand was grasped
by Dr. West. He was waiting for us, he said ; he ex
pected us on that train, and was staying downstairs to
meet us.
" And Margaret? I asked, clinging to his arm, and
throwing off my veil so I could see his face.
(( ( Your sister is very sick, he replied, but your com
ing will do her good. She keeps asking for you. I ar
rived yesterday, starting as soon as I received your
brother s telegram. Johnnie is nearly distracted, and
nothing but my telling him I was sure you would prefer
to have him remain at home, was of the least avail to
keep him from coming with me.
" All this he told me while we waited in the reception-
room for the keys to our apartments.
" It is very crowded here, he said, * but by a little
engineering I believe you are all comfortably provided
for. Your room especially, and he nodded to me, is
the most desirable in the building.
" I did not then know he had given it up to me, going
himself into a little hot attic chamber. Kind, generous
122 THE SHADO W OF DEATH.
Richard, you are a great comfort to rne these dreadful
days. As he had said, my own room was every way de
sirable, but I only gave it at first a hasty glance, so anx
ious was I to get to Margaret. She knew I had come,
and was asking continually for me. How sadly she was
changed from the Mai-garet who stood upon the piazza and
said good-by one morning last June. The long curls were
all brushed back, and the blue eyes looked so large, so un
naturally bright, as they turned eagerly to me, and yet I
liked her face better than ever before. There was less
of self stamped upon it, and more of kindly interest in
others.
" Dora, darling sister, was all she said, as she wound
her arms about my neck, but never since my childhood
had she called me by so endearing a title, and I felt spring
ing up in my heart a love mightier than any I had ever
felt for her, while with it came a keen remorse for the
harsh things written against my dying sister.
" I knew she was dying ; not that instant, perhaps, but
that soon, very soon, she would be gone, for there was
upon her face the same pinched look I had seen on father
and Robin just before the great destroyer came.
" Dora, she whispered at last, I am so glad you are
here. I was afraid I might never see you again, and E
wanted so much to tell you how sorry I am for the past.
I did not make your home with me as happy as I might.
Forgive me, Dora. I worried you and John so much.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 123
He says I never did, but I know better. I ve thought it
all over, lying here, and I know you cannot be so sorry
to have me die as I should if it were you.
" I tried to stop her, tried to say that I had been
happy with her, but she would not listen, and talked on,
telling me next of the little life which had looked for
half an hour upon this world, and then floated away to
the next.
" I called it Dora for you, she said, for something
told me that I should die, and I thought you might love
baby better if she bore your name. But I am glad she
died ; it makes your burden less : for Dora, you will be
my children s mother, you will care for them.
" I thought of Dr. "West, and the year which divided
us, but I answered, Yes, I will care for the children ;
and then, to stop her talking, I was thinking of leaving
her, when Jessie s voice was heard in the hall, speaking
to the chamber-maid.
" Who is that ? Margaret asked, her old expression
coining back and settling down into a hard, unpleasant
expression, when I replied :
" That s Jessie Verner. The family came with me,
or rather I came with them. You know her ; she was
here a few weeks since.
" The dreadful girl ! Why, Dora, she whistles, and
romps with the dog, and talks to the gentlemen, and goes
down the sidewalk liip-pi-ti-liop^ and up the stairs two at
124 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
a time; and joked with John about being his second wife
right before me ! Actually, Dora, right before me ! and
Margaret s voice was highly indicative of her honor at
this last-named sin of Jessie s.
" It was better to joke before you than when you were
absent. Jessie is at least frank and open-hearted, I said,
but Margaret would not hear a word in her favor, so deep
ly prejudiced had she become against the young gii-1, who
half an hour later inquired for her with much concern,
and asked if she might see her.
" < I did not know, I said, I d ask.
" JSTever, Dora, never! and Margaret s lips shut firm
ly. That terrible girl see me ! No, indeed ! and in
this she persisted to the last, Dr. West telling Jessie that
he did not think it best for her to call on Mrs. Russell,
as it might distuib her.
"That night, tired as Jessie was, she danced like a top
in the drawing-room, meeting many acquaintances, and
winning a host of male admirers by her frankness and
originality. Next morning I counted upon her table as
many as six bouquets, the finest of which she begged me
carry Margaret, with her compliments.
" Margaret was weaker this morning than she had been
the previous night, but her eyes lighted up with a gleam
of pleasure when I appeared with the flowers, and she in
voluntarily raised her hand to take them.
THE 8HADO W OF DEATH.
" c Miss Jessie sent them, I said, and instantly they
dropped from Margaret s grasp, while she exclaimed :
"" That dreadful girl? Put them out of my sight.
They make me sick. I can t endure it !
" So I put the poor discarded flowers away in the chil
dren s room, and then went back to Mai-garet, who kept
me by her the live-long day, talking of the years gone by,
of our dead parents, and finally of the rapidly coming
time when she would be dead like them. Then she spoke
of Johnnie and the little boys at home, and gave to me
messages of love, with sundry injunctions to mind what
ever I might tell them. Remembering Johnnie s letter,
in which he had expressed so much contrition for the
saucy words said to her when he did battle for me, I told
her of his grief and his desire that I should do so. Mar
garet was beautiful then, with the great mother-love
shining out upon her face, as with quivering lip she bade
me tell the repentant boy how she forgave him all the
past, and only thought of him as her eldest-born and
pride.
" And, Dora, when I m dead, cut off some of my curls,
and give the longest, the brightest to Johnnie.
" I assented with tears, and received numerous other di
rections until my brain was in a whirl, so much seemed
depending upon me.
" Hovering constantly over and around her was brother
John, doing everything so clumsily and yet so kindly,
126 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
that Margaret did hot send him from her until the day
was closing. Then as I came back to her after a short
absence, during which I had gone with Bell and Jessie to
the Congress Spring, she said to him softly :
" Now leave me with Dora.
" He obeyed silently, and I fancied there was a flush
upon his cheek as he closed the door upon us. All
thought of that, however, was forgotten in Margaret s
question :
" * Dora, are you engaged ?
" How I started, standing upon my feet, so that from
the window I saw Dr. West leaning against a tree, and
talking to Jessie, who sat with Bell \ipon the piazza. I
thought she referred to him, and I answered her no,
wondering the while if it was a falsehood I told her.
" I am glad, she said, reaching for my hand. * When
I heard he was at his sister s in Morrisville, I thought it
might end in an engagement, particularly as he admired
you so much when he visited us last summer.
" I knew now that she was talking of Lieutenant Reed,
and that no suspicion of my love for Dr. West had ever
crossed her mind, and so I listened, while she con
tinued :
" I told you last night that you must be my children s
mother, and you promised that you would. Tell me so
again, Dora. Say that no one else shall come between
you, and if, in after years, children of your own shall
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 127
climb your lap, and cling about your neck, love mine still
for your dead sister s sake. Promise, Dora.
" For an instant there flashed upon my mind a thought,
the reality of which would prove a living death, and in
that interval I felt all the sickening anguish which would
surely come upon me were I to take her place in every
thing. But she did not mean that. She could not doom
me to such a fate, and so when she said to me again
faintly, oh ! so faintly, while the perspiration stood on her
white lips, and her cold hand clasped mine pleadingly,
Promise, Dora, to be my children s mother.
" I answered, * Yes, I will care for and be to them a
mother.
" You make me so happy, she replied ; { for, Dora,
and her dim eyes flashed indignantly, { you may say it
was all in a jest, but I know that dreadful whistling girl
meant more than half she said. She fancied John, and
sometimes I thought he fancied her. Dora, I should rise
out of my grave to have her there, in my room, riding in
my carriage, sporting my diamonds, and using my dresses,
the whistling hoyden !
" I shed tears of repentance over Margaret s dead body
for the merry laugh I could not repress at the mere idea
of her being jealous of Jessie Verner, who was only eigh
teen years of age, while brother John was almost forty.
My laugh disturbed her, and so I forced it back, going at
128 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
her request for John, who, when next we met alone,
stroked my hair kindly, saying to me :
" You are a good girl, Dora, to make Madge so easy
about the children.
"Again that torturing fear ran like a sharp knife through
every nerve, and hurrying on to the farther end of the
long hall, I sat down upon the floor and wept bitterly as
I thought, * What if Margaret did mean that I should
some time be his wife. Am I bound by a promise to do
so?
" From the busy street below came up a hum of voices,
among which I recognized the clear, musical tones of Dr.
West, while there stole over me a mad desire to fly to
him at once, to throw myself into his arms and ask him
to save me from I knew not what, unless it were the
white-faced sister going so fast from our midst. And
while I sat there crouching upon the floor, Jessie came
tripping down the hall, her bright face all aglow with
excitement, but changing its expression when she saw
and recognized me.
" Poor Dora! she whispered, kneeling beside me and
pressing her warm cheek against my own ; I am so sorry
for you. It must be dreadful to lose one s sister. Why,
only this afternoon, when I was talking and laughing
with those young men downstairs, whom I can t endure,
only I like to have them after me, I was thinking of you,
and the tears came into my eyes as I tried to fancy how
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 129
I should feel if Bell were dying here. Death seems more
terrible, don t it, when it comes to such a place as this,
where there is so much vanity, and emptiness, and
fashion ? I have been saying so to Dr. West, who talked
to me so Christian-like. Oh ! I wish I was as good as
Dr. West ! I should not then be afraid to lie where
your sister does, and go out from this world alone in the
night, leaving you all behind. Is she afraid, do you
think ?
" I did not know, and I answered only with a choking
sob, as I gazed up into the clear evening sky, where the
myriads of stars were shining, and thought of the father
and mother already gone, wondering if we should one
day all meet again, an unbroken family. For a long time
we sat there, I listening while Jessie talked as I had not
thought it possible for her to talk. There was more to
her even than to Bell I began to realize, wishing Mar
garet might live to have her prejudice removed. But
that could not be. Even then the dark-winged messenger
was on his way, stealing noiselessly into the crowded
house and gliding past the gay throng, each one of which
would some day be sent for thus. Up the winding stair he
went and through the upper halls until Margaret s room
was reached, and there he entered. Dr. West was the
first to detect his presence, knowing he was there by the
peculiar shadow cast by his dark wing upon the ghastly
face and by the fluttering of the feeble pulse; and
6*
130 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
Margaret knew it next, and asked for me and the chil
dren.
" I was sitting with Jessie at the window, watching the
glittering stars, when a step came hurriedly towards us,
and Dr. West s voice said to me, pityingly :
" Dora, your sister has sent for you. I believe she
is dying.
" I had expected she would die, had said I was pre
pared to meet it ; but now when it came it was a sudden
blow, and as I rose to my feet I uttered a moaning cry,
which made the doctor lay his hand on my head, while,
unmindful of Jessie s presence, he passed one arm round
my waist, and so led me on to where the husband and
the children wept around the dying wife and mother.
The waltzing had commenced in the parlor below, and
strain after strain of the stirring music came in through
the open windows, making us shudder and grow faint,
for standing there, with death in our midst, the song and
the dance were sadly out of place. For a moment I
missed the doctor from my side, and afterwards I heard
how a few well-chosen words from him had sufficed to
stop the revellers, who silently dispersed, some to the
other hotels, where there was no dying-bed, some to the
cool piazzas, where in hushed tones they talked together
of Margaret, and others to their rooms, thinking, as Jes
sie had done, how much more terrible was death at such
a place as this, than when it came into the quiet bed-
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 131
chamber of home. And the great hotel was silent at
last, every guest respecting the sorrow falling so heavily
on a few, and even the servants in the kitchen catching
the pervading spirit, and speaking only in whispers as
they kept on with their labor. And up in Margaret s
room it was quiet, too, as we watched the life going out
slowly, very slowly, so that the twinkling lights were
gone from the many windows, and the nuns in the con
vent across the street had ceased to tell their beads ere
the chamber-maid in our hall leaned over the bannisters,
and whispered to a chamber-maid below, * The lady is
daad.
" There had been a last word, and it was spoken to
me, ringing in my ears for hours after the stiffening
limbs were straightened, and the covering laid over the
still, white face of her who said them.
" Remember your promise, Dora, your promise to
your dead sister.
" Yes. I would remember it, as I understood it, I
said to myself, hugging little Daisy in my arms, and
soothing her back to the sleep which had been broken
that her mother might kiss her once more. And while
I cared for Daisy, Jessie cared for Margaret, just as she
had for Robin. Jessie was a blessing to us then, and we
could not well have done without her. Bell, though ten
years older, was helpless as a child, while her young sis
ter ordered all, thought of all, even to the bereaved hus-
132 THE SHADOW OF DEATH.
band sobbing so long by the side of his lost wife. In
the gray dawn of the morning, as I passed the room, I
saw her standing by him, and knew she was comforting
him, for her small hand was smoothing his hair as if he
tad been her father. Involuntarily I looked to see if
/rom the dead there came no sign of disapprobation ; but
no, the wife was lying there so still, while Jessie com
forted the husband.
ft They have put Margaret in her coffin ; it is fifteen
hours since she died, and to-morrow we shall go with her
back to the home she left a few weeks since, and whither
a telegram has preceded us telling them of our loss.
Jessie would gladly accompany me, but I do not think it
best, neither does Bell, and so she will remain behind,
and visit me in the winter with her sister. I shall need
her then so much, for the world will be doubly lonely,
Margaret gone, and the California sun shining down on
Richard. Do I love him now ? Yes, oh yes, and I am
not ashamed to confess it here on paper, while more than
once I have wished so much to tell it to him, wished he
would ask me again what he did by Anna s grave , and I
would not answer angrily, jealously as then. I would
say to him :
" Wait, Richard, a little time till Margaret s children
are a few years older, and then I will be yours, caring
Btill for the little ones as I promised I would.
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 133
"But he gives me no chance, and talks with Jessie
and Bell far more than he does with me. He is going
with us to Beechwood, and then in a few weeks time he
too, will be gone, and I left all alone. Oh, if he would
but give me a right to think of, and talk of him as of
one who was to be my husband, that terrible something
would not haunt me as it does, neither should I ask my
self so constantly :
" Did Margaret mean anything more thau that as a
mother I should care for her children ? "
CHAPTER XIII.
AT BEECHWOOD.
Tlie Author s Story.
[HE great house at Beechwood was closed, and
the first September sunshine which lay so
warmly on the grassy lawn and blooming
flower-garden, found no entrance through the doors and
curtained windows of what had been Margaret Russell s
home, and whither they were bringing her lifeless form.
During the past week there had been hot, passionate
tears wept in that desolate home, and touching childish
prayers made that God would spare the sick mother till
her broken-hearted boy could tell how sorry he was for the
angry words spoken to her, and for the many acts of dis
obedience which came thronging around him like so
many accusing spirits. Poor Johnnie s heart was almost
crushed when he heard that his mother must die, and
calling Ben and Burt to him, he bade them kneel with
him, and ask that God would give her back to them
alive. And so with concern for Johnnie on their baby
faces, rather than concern for their mother, the two little
AT BEECHWOOD. 135
boys prayed that " God would make mamma well, and
not let her die, or anyway send home Auntie Dora."
This was Ben s idea, and it brought a world of com
fort, making him ask Johnnie " if it wouldn t be nicer
after all to have Auntie than mamma."
" Perhaps it would, if I hadn t been so sassy to her
that morning, twitting her about not caring for us like
Auntie, and telling her to dry up. Oh, oh ! " and the
conscience-smitten boy rolled on the floor in his first real
sorrow.
To Ben, looking on in wonder, there came a thought
fraught, as he hoped, with comfort to his brother, and
pursing up his little mouth, he said :
" Pho ! I wouldn t keel over like that cause I d said
dry up. Taint a swear. It s a real nice word, and all
the boys in the street say so."
Still Johnnie was not comforted, and in a state of ter
rible suspense he waited from day to day until the fatal
morning when there came a telegi-am which he spelled
out with Burt and Ben sitting on the doorstep beside him,
their fat hands on his knee, and their little round dirty
faces turned inquiringly towards him as he read :
" SARATOGA, August 31st.
" Tour mother died at midnight. We shall be home to-mor
row, on the evening train."
There was at first no sudden outburst, but a compressed
136 AT BEECHWOOn.
quivering of the lip, a paling of the cheek, a hopeless
look in the eyes, which closed tightly as Johnnie began to
realize the truth. Then, with a loud, wild cry, he threw
himself upon the grass, while Ben and Burt laughed glee
fully at the contortions of body which they fancied were
made for their amusement. At last, however, they too
understood it partially, and Ben tried to imitate his
brother s method of expressing grief by also rolling in the
grass, while Burt, thinking intently for a moment, said,
with a sigh of relief:
" I m plaguy glad Aunty isn t dead too."
And this was all the consolation there was in that
home at Beechwood. Dora was not dead. She was
coming home and would bring sunshine with her. With
a desire to have everything done in accordance with her
taste, and also with a view to honor his mother s memory,
Johnnie, roused at last, and without a word of consulta
tion with any one, sought the old colored sexton, bidding
him toll the bell, and adding with a quivering lip :
" It s for my mother, and if you ll toll it extra for an
hour I ll give you half a dollar now, and a bushel of shag-
barks in the fall."
It did not occur to the negro that possibly some higher
authority than Johnnie s was needful ere he proceeded to
toll for a person dead in Saratoga, but love of gain and
shag-barks predominated over other feelings, and for *
full hour and a quarter the bell from the old church-
AT BEECHWOOD. 137
steeple rang out its solemn tones, tolling till the villagers
wondered if it would never stop, and repaired, some of
them, to the spot, where Johnnie sat like a second Shy-
lock, holding the sexton s watch and keeping accurate
note of time as the old man bent to his task, and tolled
that long requiem for Margaret Russell. This done
Johnnie wended his way to a dry-goods store, and before
night-fall there were streamers of crape hanging from the
gate and from every door-knob, while a band of the same
was tied around the arms of Ben and Burt, who wore
them quietly for a time and then made what they called
horse blankets for their velocipede. Poor little babies
of four and five, they knew no better, and only acted as
other children do when left wholly to themselves. Years
hence they will weep for the mother scarcely remem
bered, but now her death was nothing to them, except as
they saw the deep distress of Johnnie, who, long after
they were sleeping in their cribs, sobbed passionately
upon his pillow, sorrowing most of all for the angry words
spoken to the mother who would never know his grief.
How long to him were the hours of the next day, when
they waited for the dead. It was also a day of peace and
quiet, for owing to Johnnie s continual efforts there was
only a single fight between the little boys, who other
wise comported themselves with admirable propriety, ask
ing often when Aunt Dora would come, and if Johnnie
was sure she was not dead too ?
133 AT BEECHWOOD.
At last the train came screaming in, and shortly after
the hearse stopped before the gate, while the coffin was
brought slowly up the walk and placed in the darkened
parlor. With a great sobbing cry Johnnie sprang
towards Dora, but suddenly checked himself, as there
flashed upon his mind that to his father belonged the first
greeting of sorrow. And who that has passed through
such a scene that knows not the comfort there is in the
sympathy of a warm-hearted child ! Squire Russell felt
it keenly, as he held his first-born in his arms and heard
his boyish attempts at consolation.
" We ll love each other more, father, now our mother s
gone. Poor father, don t cry so hard. If you ll stop I ll
try to do so too. We ve got Aunt Dora left and all the
children. Benny, come and kiss poor father, because
mother is dead."
Such were Johnnie s words, and they fell soothingly on
the father s heart, making him think he had not lost every
thing which made his life desirable. He had his children
still, and he had Dora too. She was in the nursery now,
with Ben and Burt clinging to her neck, and asking why
she cried when they were so glad to have her back, ask
ing, too, what made mamma so cold, and why she was
sleeping in that long queer box on the parlor table. They
did not know what death meant, and continued their
questionings until their eyelids closed in slumber, and
AT BEECHWOOD. 139
they forgot the long box on the parlor table, with the
mother sleeping in it.
The night was hot and sultry, and as Dora lay tossing
restlessly, she fancied she heard a sound from the parlor,
which was just beneath her room, and throwing on her
dressing-gown she went noiselessly down the stairs to the
parlor door, which was open, and saw a little form
kneeling by the coffin and talking to the unconscious
dead.
" O mother, maybe you can hear me ; I m Johnnie,
and I m so sorry I was ever bad to you, and made your
head ache so ! Poor mother, I used to think I loved
Aunt Dora best, but now I know I didn t ! There s
nothing like a mother, and I was going to tell you so
when you got home, but you re dead and I can t! O
mother ! mother ! will you never know ? "
" She does ; she did know, Johnnie, for I told her,"
Dora said, advancing into the room and taking the child
in her arms ; ft I told her you were sorry, and she forgave
you freely, sending you messages of love, and bidding me
cut her longest, brightest curl for you. I did so, Johnnie;
it is in my room, and to-morrow you shall have it."
" Why not to-night ? " Johnnie pleaded, and so his
aunt brought him the lock of hair cut from Margaret s
head, the mother s last memento, which Johnny took with
him to his room, sleeping more quietly because of that
tress of hair upon his pillow.
140 AT BEECIIWOOD.
It was a long procession which followed Margaret to
her grave, and for the sake of Johnnie the sexton again
tolled for the dead, until the husband and the sister
wished the sad sounds would cease. Sadly they returned
to the house, leaving Margaret behind them, and missing
her more than one month ago they would have thought
it possible. But as the days went by the family gradually
resumed its wonted cheerfulness, for Dora was there still :
their head, their blessing, and comforter. Many lonely
hours Squire Hussell experienced, it is true, but there was
always a solace in knowing that Dora would welcome him
home after a brief and necessaiy absence ; that Dora
would preside at his table, and keep his children in order ;
that Dora, in short, would do everything which the most
faithful of sisters could do. The children, too, clung to
Dora even more than they were wont to do ; and little
Daisy, taught by Clem, the nurse-maid, called her mam
ma, a name which Ben and Burt were quick to catch,
and which Dora did not like to hear, especially if the
father chanced to be present.
At Dora s heart there was a constant dread of some
impending evil, and when, three weeks after Margarets
death, she stood one night alone with Dr. West, listening
to his farewell, she felt again a longing to throw herself
on his protection, and thus she might be saved from dan
ger. But the doctor, though treating her with the ut
most tenderness, had never broached the subject of his
AT BEECUWOOD. 141
love since that time at Anna s grave, where she answered
him so indifferently. Her foolish words had hurt him.
more since than they did then, causing him sometimes to
wonder if she did really care for him. If not, or if the
germ of her affection was as yet very small, it was better
not tc press the matter, but let it take its course ; and so,
trusting that absence would do all that he wished done,
he only said good-by as he would have said it to a dear
sister, and hardly so, for when he would have kissed the
sister, he left Dora unkissed, fancying she would be
better pleased with such a parting. His caresses had
wearied Anna, and he would not err this way again, so
he never touched the lips which would have paid him
back so gladly, but merely pressed the little hand which
trembled in his, as he said to her, " A year is not very
long, Dora. It will pass sooner than we think, and you
must not forget me." Another pressure of the hand, and
he was gone, leaving the maiden far more desolate than
he dreamed. Could he have known how fast the tears
came, when alone in her room she went over with the
parting and said to herself, " He does not love me now.
My waywardness has sickened him ; " could he have
seen her when in the early dawn she watched him as he
left the house for the last time, he would have turned
back, and by taking her with him, or staying himself with
her, would have saved her from the dark storm which
would bear her down with its mighty force.
142 AT BEECH WOOD.
But this he did not know, and he went his way to
Morrisville, where his mother waited for him, and where
Jessie, just returned from Saratoga, sparkled, and flashed,
and flitted around him, asking him to write occasionally
to her father, and tell them of California.
" Why not write to you ? " he replied, and Jessie re
sponded at once:
" To me, then, if you like ; I shall be delighted."
Judge Verner, and Bell, and Mattie Randall all heard
this conversation, and so there could be no harm in it,
Jessie thought, while the others thought the same, know
ing that the light-hearted girl was already corresponding
with at least ten gentlemen, for not one of whom did she
care in the least. She was a merry little creature, and
she made the doctor s stay at Morrisville much pleasauter
than it would otherwise have been, and after he was
fairly on the sea, she wrote to Dora a glowing account
of " the perfectly splendid time she had with Doctor
West, the best and most agreeable man in the world.
We are going to correspond, too," she added in a post
script, " and that will make the eleventh gentleman on
my list. I want it an even dozen, and then I ll be satis
fied."
Dora knew Jessie was a flirt, but this did not lessen
the pang with which she read that Jessie, and not herself,
was to be the recipient of the doctor s letters. Never
had the autumn seemed so dreary to her before ; and
AT BEECHWOOD. 143
when the first wintry snows were falling she shrank, with
a nervous dread, from the coming months, with the long,
long evenings, when there would be nothing to occupy
her time, except, indeed, the children, or the game of
chess which she played nightly with her brother.
For one who at first mourned so sorely for the dead,
the squire had recovered his spirits wonderfully, and the
villagers even hinted that, as is usual with widowers, his
dress had undergone a change, being now more youthful
and stylish than informer days when Margaret was alive.
Young girls blushed when he appeared at any of the so
cial gatherings, while the older ones grew very conscious
of themselves, and the mothers were excessively polite
and gracious to the squire. He was happier than he
used to be, notwithstanding that he went twice a week
to Margaret s grave, and always spoke of her as " my dear
wife." It soothed his conscience to do this, particularly
as he felt how much he enjoyed going home from Marga
ret s grave, and finding order and quiet and pleasant
words, where once there had been confusion and fretful
complaints. Dora was very pretty in her mourning-garb,
with the simple linen band about her neck and wrists,
for she would relieve the sombre aspect of her dress with
a show of white, even if it were not the fashion. There
was not much color in her cheeks, and her eyes were
larger than usual, but to the squire and the children she
was very beautiful, moving among them as their house-
14A AT BEECHWOOD.
hold goddess, and always speaking so lovingly and
kind.
Once, and only once, there came a letter from Dr.
West, a friendly letter, which any one might read, and
\vhich said that he was at Marysville, with his mother,
whose health was greatly improved.
" I like the country much," he wrote, ft and if I had
with me a few of my Eastern friends I should be willing
to settle here for life ; but, as it is, I find myself looking
forward eagerly to the time when I shall return and meet
you all again."
This passage Squire John read twice, and then glanced
again at the " My Dear Dora " with which the letter
commenced.
" The doctor is very affectionate," he said, " calling
you Dear Dora, though perhaps he has a right, for I
remember thinking he admired you."
Dora was bending over Daisy, whom she was rocking
to sleep, and he did not see her blushes as she re
plied :
" That is a very common way of addressing people, and
means nothing at all."
Perhaps the squire believed this, but he was quite
absent-minded the remainder of the day, and in the
evening was twice checkmated by Dora, when his usual
custom had been to checkmate her.
Dora s first intention was to answer the doctor s letter
AT BEECHWOOD. 145
at once, but sickness among the children prevented her
from doing so, and when she was at last free to write, the
disposition had in. a measure left her, and so the answer
for which the doctor waited so anxiously was not sent.
CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE SPRING.
the house at Beechwood the May flowers
were blooming, and in the maple-trees the birds
were building their nests, cooing lovingly to
each other as they did so, and seeming all unconscious of
the young heart which within the doors felt that never
before had there come to it a spring so full of sorrow and
harrowing dread. Jessie and Bell Verner were both
there now, and Jessie had brought two immense trunks
and a hat-box, as if her intention was to spend the entire
summer. She was just as merry and hoydenish as of old,
romping with the children in the grass and on the nurs
ery floor, herself the veriest child among them, while her
ringing laugh woke all the echoes of the place and made
even the Squire join in it, and try to act young again.
Both Jessie and Bell noted the change in Dora, and
Jessie asked her outright what it was that made her
look so frightened, as if constantly in fear of something ;
but Dora could not tell what she feared, for she had
scarcely dared to define to herself the meaning of Squire
Russell s manner toward her. A stranger would have
IN THE SPRING. 147
perceived no difference in his treatment of her now and
when his wife was living, but Dora felt the change, and it
almost drove her wild, making her one day sharply re
buke the little Daisy for calling her mamma.
" I am not your mother," she said fiercely. " Your
mamma is dead, and I am only Auntie."
The child looked up in surprise, but called her mam
ma just the same, while Dora s eyelids closed tightly over
the hot tears she thus kept from falling. That day
when Johnnie came home from school at dinner-time he
showed unmistakable marks of having been in a fight,
and when questioned by his father as to the cause of his
black eye, broke out furiously :
" I ve been a lickin Bill Carter, and I ll do it again if
he ever tells such stuff about you ! Why, he said you re
a going to get married to that ill-begotten, shoulder- shot-
ten snap-dragon of a Miss Dutton ! I told him twas the
biggest lie, and then he said it wasn t, that it was true,
and she was coming here to be our step-mother ; that she
would cut off Tish s curls, spank Ben and Burt twice a
day, shake Daisy into shoe-strings, and make Jim and me
toe the mark, the hateful ! "
" She ain t, she shan t, old nasty Dutton," and fiery
Ben shook his tiny fist at an imaginary bugbear who was
to spank him twice a day.
Jessie laughed aloud. Bell looked amused, Dora dis
turbed, and the Squire very red, as he said to his son :
148 W THE SPRING.
tl You should not mind such gossip, or allow your
self to get into a passion. Time enough to rebel when
the step-mother comes. Now go to your room and bathe
your eye."
Johnnie obeyed, muttering as he went :
" There s only one person I d have for a step
mother any how, and that s Aunt Dora. Guy, wouldn t
I raise hob with anybody else ! "
" John, leave instantly ! " the Squire said sternly, while
his face colored crimson, as did Dora s also, making Bell
and Jessie glance curiously at each other, as both thought
of the same thing.
In their own room, after dinner, they discussed to
gether the possibility of Dora s becoming what Johnnie
wished her to be, Bell scouting the idea as preposterous,
and Jessie insisting that a girl might love Squire Russell
well enough to take him with all his children.
* Not that I think Dora will do so," she said, " for I
fancy he is not as much to her taste, even, as lie is to
mine ; and I guess I d jump in the creek sooner than
marry an old widower with half a dozen children."
What the two sisters were discussing privately in
their room was talked openly in the village, some of
the people arguing that Dora could not do better,
while all agreed that for the Squire it would be a match
every way desirable both for his own and his children s
sake. To the Squire himself the story was told one day,
IN THE SPRING. 149
the teller hinting that the matter was entirely settled,
iiud asking when the marriage would take place.
With some jocose reply, the Squire rode away, going
round to Margaret s grave, and thence back to his home,
where the evening lights were shining, and where Dora,
with Daisy in her arms, sat alone in the back parlor,
Bell and Jessie having accepted an invitation which she
was obliged to decline on account of a bad headache.
There were strange thoughts stirring in the Squire s
breast that night, thoughts which had haunted him for
weeks and months, aye, since Margaret died, for he could
not forget her words.
" You need not wait long. You and Dora are above
people s gossip, and it will be so much better for the
children."
This was what Margaret had said to him that night
when misapprehending her sister just as she was misap
prehended, she had told him :
" I have talked with Dora, and she has promised to
take my place."
At first he had been satisfied with matters as they
were, and had said that he never could marry and love
again. But gradually there had crept into life another
feeling, which prompted him to watch Dora constantly
as she moved about his house ; to miss her when she was
away, to think of her the last at night as well as first in
the morning, to wonder, with a harassing jealousy, if Dr.
150 IN TUE SPRING.
West cared for Dora, or if she cared for him. No, slie
did not, he thought, and made himself believe it, else he
had never said to her what he did that night, when, with
Daisy in her arms, she sat wholly in his power, and was
obliged to listen to what was not unexpected, but which,
nevertheless, fell like a thunderbolt upon her, turning her
into stone, and making her grow faint and sick, just as
she did at Saratoga, when the first suspicion dawned upon
her that some day John Russell would speak to her what
he was speaking now, with one hand on her shoulder and
the other on Daisy s golden head. It was a kind, true,
fatherly heart he offered her, and she felt that he meant
it all. He cast no reflections upon his departed wife,
he merely said :
" You knew Margaret as well as I. She was not, per
haps, as even-tempered as a more healthy person would
have been, but I loved her, remembering always what she
was when I took her from her home. You were a little
girl, then, Dora, and I never dreamed that I should
some time be sueing for your hand just as I had sued for
Margaret s. "
Then he pleaded for his children, who loved her so
much ; would she be their mother, just as she had prom
ised Margaret she would ? Then Dora roused herself,
and the face which met the Squire s view made his heart
beat faster as he doubted what it portended.
" I did not think Margaret meant what you ask," Dora
IN THE SPRING. 151
said, her words coming gaspingly. " I thought she meant
care for them as I have tried to do, and will do still. I ll
stay with you, John. I ll be your housekeeper, but don t
ask me to be your wife. I can t; I m too young for
you ; I m, O John ! O Margaret ! " and here the
voice broke down entirely, while Dora sobbed convul
sively.
Margaret, too, had said she could not be his wife when
he asked her. She, too, had said she was too young, and
cried, but hers was not like Dora s crying, and Squire
Russell saw the difference, feeling perplexed, but never
suspected the truth. It was natural for girls to cry, he
thought, when they received an offer of marriage, and so,
with both hands on her shoulder, he pleaded again, but
this time for himself, telling her in words which his true
love made eloquent, how dear she was to him, dearer, if
possible, than his early choice, the beautiful Margaret.-
And Dora believed him, for she knew he was incapable of
deception, and that made her pain harder to bear.
* If I had supposed you cared for any one else," he
said, " I should not have sought you, but I did not. Dr.
West wrote to you, I know, and I was foolish enough to
wish he had not called you his dear Dora, but you did
not answer him, and of course there is but one conclusion
to be drawn from that. You do not care for him, nor he
for you? "
lie put this to her interrogatively, but Dora could not
152 IN TEE SPRING.
speak. Once she thought to tell him "what there was be
tween her and Dr. West, but something kept her silent,
and so in perfect good faith, kind, honest, truthful John
kept on until she answered :
" Please leave me now ; I must think, and I am so
stunned and bewildered. I ll answer another time."
Squire Russell was far too good-natured to stay longer
if she did not wish it, and stooping down he kissed his
sleeping child, and said :
" Let me kiss baby s auntie, too ? "
Dora offered no resistance, and he touched her forehead
respectfully, and then quitted the room. He had kissed
her many times when Margaret was living, but no kiss
had ever burned her as this one did, for she knew it was
not a brother s kiss, and with a sensation of loathing she
passed her hand over the place, and then wiped it with
her handkerchief, j ust as a rustling sound met her ear, and
the next moment there was another pleader kneeling at
her feet, Johnnie, who had overheard a part of his father s
wooing, and who took it up just where his sire had
left it ; his stormy, impetuous arguments bearing Dora
completely away from herself, so that she hardly knew
what she did or said.
" You will be father s wife, Aunt Dora ; you will, you
must ! " Johnnie began. " I ve prayed for it every sin
gle day since I heard that stuff about old Dutton. I ve
gone to mother s grave and knelt down there, asking that
IN THE SPRING. 153
it might be. Jim and Tish pray so, too, for I told em
to, and I should make Ben and Burt, only I knew they d
tell you ; and Auntie, you will ! Father s older than you
a lot, I s pose, but he is so good, and was so kind to
mother, even when she plagued him. I never told, but
once after you went to Morrisville, she got awful, and
lammed him the wust kind, told him he was fat, and
pussy, and awkward, and she was always ashamed of him
at watering-places, and a sight more. At last she left
the room, and poor papa put his head right in my lap
and cried out loud. I cried too, and said to him :
< Let s lick her : I ll help.
" But he wouldn t hear a word. Says he :
" Hush, my boy ; she s your mother and my wife.
She is not as she used to be. She s sick and nervous.
" And when I asked the difference between ugly and
nervous, he made me stop, and was just as kind to her at
supper-time as ever. Tell me such a man won t make a
good husband! He ll be splendid, and he s handsomer
than he was, he has lost that look as if he was afraid
something was after him, a henpecked look, Clem called
it. Poor father; he has had so little comfort, you must
make him happy, Auntie ; you will, and you ll "make
us all so good. You know how like Cain we behave with
out you, and how we all mind when you tell us what is
right. Will you be father s wife and help xis grow up
good?"
7*
15-i IN THE SPRING.
He had her face between his warm hands, and was
looking at her so earnestly, that for his sake Dora could
almost have answered yes, but thoughts of what being his
father s wife involved chilled her through and through,
and she answered him :
" Johnnie, I do not believe I can."
For an instant the boy s black eyes blazed fiercely at
her, and then he angrily exclaimed, " I ll go to ruin, just
as fast as I can go ! I ll smoke to-morrow, if I live, and
teach Jim and Ben to do so too! I ll swear, and when
the circus comes next week I ll run away to that, and
take Tish with me ; I ll gamble ; I ll drink, and when
I m brought home drunker n a fool, you ll know it is your
work ! "
He looked like a young tiger as he stood uttering
these terrible threats, and Dora quailed before his flash
ing eyes, feeling that much he had said was in earnest.
She did not fear his swearing, or gambling, or drinking,
for the present, at least, but he might not always act his
best ; he might grow surly and hard and unmanageable,
even by her, unless she yielded to his request, and this
she couldn t do.
** Johnnie," she began, and something in her voice
quieted the excited boy, " would you have me marry your
father when I do not love him, and just the thought of
being his wife makes me almost sick ? "
Johnnie was not old enough to comprehend her
IN THE SPUING 155
meaning. He only felt that it was not a very bad thing
to be the wife of a man as good as his father, and he an
swered her, " You do love him well enough, or you will,
and he so affectionate. Why he used to hug and kiss
mother every day, even when she was crosser than fury.
Of course then he ll hug you most to death."
" Oh h," Dora groaned, the tone of her voice so in
dicative of disgust that even Johnnie caught a new idea,
which he afterwards acted upon; but he would not yield
his point : Dora should be his mother, and he continued
the siege until, wearied out with his arguments, Dora per
emptorily bade him leave her while she could think in
quiet.
Oh, that long, terrible thinking which brought on so
racking a headache that Dora was not seen in the parlor
on the day following, but lay upstairs in her own room,
where, with the bolted door between her and the world
outside, she met and battled with what seemed her des
tiny ! One by one every incident connected with Mar
garet s death came back to her, and she knew now what
the questionings meant, far better than she did then,
while she half expected the dead sister to rise before her
and reproach her for shrinking from her duty. Then the
children came up, a powerful argument swaying her in
the direction of Squire Russell. She could do them good ;
she could train them so much better than another, and
John, if she refused him, would assuredly bring another
156 IN THE SPUING.
there to rule and govern them. These were (lie argu
ments in favor of John s suit, "while on tho other side a
mighty barrier was interposed to keep her from the sacri
fice. Her love for Dr. West, and the words spoken to
her at Anna s grave ; and was she not virtually engaged
to him ?
" Yes, oh yes, I am ! " she cried, and then there
came over her all the doubts which had so tortured her
since that time in the Morrisville cemetery.
Ilad he not spoken hastily and repented afterwards ?
Tlis continued silence on the subject would seem so ; and
why did he not write to her just as did he to Jessie, who,
since coming to Beechwood, had received a letter from
him which contained no mention of her, but was full of
the light, bantering matter in which he knew Jessie de
lighted. Dora had heard Jessie say she was going tt
answer the letter that very day; and suddenly, like
dawn of hope, there flashed over her the determination
that she, too, woxild write and tell him of Squire Rus
sell s offer ; and if he loved her still he would come to
save her, or he would write, telling her again how dear
fche was to him, and that he alone must call her his wife.
-"Yes, I ll do it," Dora whispered; "I know he is at
San Francisco, for Jessie directs there ; I ll write to
day. It shall go in the same mail with hers. I ll wait
tw*b months for his reply, and then, if he answers Jessie
and ignores me, I ll "
IN THE SPRING. 157
Dora set her teeth firmly together, and her breath
came hurriedly, as she paused a moment ere she added,
" I ll marry John."
And so with a throbbing head Dora wrote to Dr.
West, telling him of the proposal and asking what he
thought of it. This was all she meant the letter to
mean, for her maidenly reserve would not suffer her to
betray her real motive if she knew it, but it was more
like a pleading cry for help, more like a wail of anguish
for one she loved to save her from a fate she had not
strength to resist alone, than like a mere asking of ad
vice. The letter was finished, and just after dark, when
sure no one could see her, Dora stole from the house
unobserved, and hastening to the office, dropped into the
box the missive of so much importance to her.
* It is sure to go with Jessie s," she said, as she
wended her way back, " so if hers is received I shall
know that mine was also."
Alas ! Jessie s had been written the previous night,
after that young lady s return from her visit, and while
Dora s letter was lying quietly in the box at Beechwood
awaiting the morning mail, Jessie s was miles on its way
to New York and the steamer which would take it to
California a week in advance of the other. But Dora
did not know this, neither did she know that it con
tained the following paragraph :
"There is no news, except the rumor that Squire
158 IN THE SPRING.
Russell will marry his pretty sister-in-law. Bell won t
believe a word of it, but some things look like it. Dora
is so queer. I had picked her out for you, and believe
now that she likes you, though when your name is men
tioned, she bites her words off so short and crisp that I
am confounded. She is a splendid girl, and will make a
grand wife, to say nothing of step-mother."
Little did Jessie suspect the harm these few compara
tively harmless lines would cause, and little did Dora
suspect it either, as with a load of pain lifted from her
heart and consequently from her head, she sat down by
her open window and followed with her mind her letter s
course to far-off California, and then imagined the quick
response it would bring back, and which would make her
so happy.
" Johnnie must be the medium between Squire Rus
sell and me," she said. " I ll tell him to-morrow that
his father must wait for my definite reply at least six
weeks, and possibly two months. At the end of that
time I shall know for sure, and if the doctor does not
care, there will be a kind of desperate pleasure in marry
ing my brother."
CHAPTER XV.
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
S Dora reached this conclusion there came a
well-known knock upon the door, and unfasten
ing the bolt she admitted Johnnie, who had
been up many times that day, but had not before been
permitted to enter.
" O Auntie," he cried, " you are better and I m glad.
I didn t mean what I said about swearing, and drinking,
and smoking, and I was so mad at myself that I teased
Ben and Burt on purpose till they got hoppin , and then
I lay still while both little Arabs pitched into me. My !
didn t their feet fly like drumsticks as they kicked and
struck, and pulled my hair ; but when Ben got the big
carving-fork, I concluded I d been punished enough, and
so deserted the field ! But, Auntie, I do wish you could
love father. He has looked so sorry to-day, kind of
white about the mouth, and his hand trembled this noon
when he carved the turkey. Won t you, Auntie ? I ve
prayed ten times this afternoon that you might, and I
begin to have faith that you will. Dr. West, who used
to talk to me so good last summer when I was in his
100 WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
Sunday-school class, said we must have faitli that God
would hear us."
Dora drew a long, sad sigh, as she wished she too had
been taught of Dr. West to pray differently from what
she knew she did. Smoothing back John s soft, dark
hair, she said :
" Johnnie, girls cannot make a love in a minute, and
this came so suddenly upon me, I must have time to think,
six weeks or two months, and then I will decide. Will
you tell your father this for me ? Tell him I m sorry to
make him feel badly, that I like him and always shall,
even if I am not his wife that I know how good, how
generou she is, that he will wait until I know my own
mind better, and then if I cannot be his, he must not
mind it."
" I ll tell him," Johnnie said, while Dora continued :
" And Johnnie, perhaps it had better be understood
that nothing is to be said about it in the mean time,
nothing to me by your father."
" Yes, I know, I see. I ll fix it," Johnnie answered.
I ll go to father now," and stooping down, he kissed his
aunt tenderly, then suddenly asked, as he looked into her
eyes, " You don t mind my kissing you, do you ? That
don t make you sick ? "
" No, oh no ! " she answered, and Johnnie departed on
his strange errand.
Squire Russell sat in his office or reading-room, pre-
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER
tending to look over his evening paper, but his thoughts
were really upstaii-s with Dora, whom he had not seen
that day, and whose illness troubled him greatly, for he
rightly associated it with his proposal of the previous
night. Squire Russell loved Dora with a great, warm,
sheltering love, which would shield her from all harm,
and unselfishly yield to her everything, but he had not
the nice, quick perception of Dr. West, and had he been
younger he could never have satisfied the wants of her
higher nature as could the rival whose existence he did
not suspect. But he loved her very much. He must
have her. He could not live without her, he thought,
and womanish man that he was, a tear was gathering in
his eyes when Johnnie entered the room abruptly, and
locking the door, came and stood beside him.
"What do you wish, my boy ?" the Squire said
kindly, for he was never impatient with his children.
Johnnie hesitated, beginning to feel that his father s
love affair was a delicate matter for him to meddle with.
" Confound it," he began at last, " I may as well spit
it out, and then let you knock me down, or lick me, or
anything you like. Father, I heard what you said to
Auntie last night, and what she said to you, and after
you was gone I took the floor and beat you all to smash.
I said she must be my mother, she should be my mother,
and all that, and set you up, I tell you, till you d hardly
know yourself from my description. To-night I ve seen
162 WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
her again, have just come from lier room to tell you
something she bade me tell."
Squire Russell had turned very white at first, feeling
indignant at his son for presuming to interfere, but this
feeling had disappeared now, and he listened eagerly while
Johnnie continued :
" She says its sudden ; that she can t make a love in a
minute ; that she must have six weeks or two months to
decide, and then she will tell you sure, and, father, you ll
wait ; I know you will, and, and, well, I guess I d hold
my tongue, that is, I wouldn t keep teasing her, nor say
a word ; just let her go her own gait, and above all I
wouldn t act lovin like, for fear she d up and vomit.
She don t mind me kissing her, because I ve no beard, I
don t shave, nor carry a cane. I m a boy, and you are a
whiskered old chap. I guess that s the difference between
us. Father, you ll wait?"
Squire Russell could not forbear a smile at his son s
novel reasoning, but he was not angry, and it made his
child seem nearer, now that both shared the same secret,
and were interested in the same cause. Yes, he would
wait two, three, or four months if Dora liked, and mean
time things should continue as usual in the household.
"And afterward, father?" Johnnie asked. "How
about that? If auntie says no, she ll mean it, and you
won t raise a rumpus, will you ? You ll grin and bear it
like a man ? "
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER. 163
Yes, the Squire would do all his son required, and be
fore Dora retired for the night, a bit of paper was pushed
under her door, on which was written :
"The governor is O. K. He ll wait and so will I;
and if you must say no, he won t raise hob, but /will.
I tell you now I ll raise the very roof! Don t say no,
Auntie, don t !
" Yours Very Respectfully and Regretfully,
" JOHN H. RUSSELL."
It was rather embarrassing next morning at the break
fast table, but Johnnie threw himself into the gap, talking
loudly and rapidly to his father of the war meeting to be
held that night, wishing he was a man, so he could enlist,
and predicting, as did many a foolish one at that period,
the spring of 61, that the immense force of 75,000,
called for by the President, would subjugate the South
at once.
The Squire talked very little, and never once glanced
at Dora, who in her heart blessed both Jessie and
Johnnie, the latter for engaging his father s attention and
the former for talking so constantly to herself and
Bell.
Dora was very white and nervous, but this was imputed
to her illness of the previous day, and so neither Bell nor
Jessie dreamed of what had passed between her and their
164: WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
host, or how her heart was aching with the terrible fear
of what might be in store for her.
It had been arranged that the Misses Verner should
remain at Beech wood fora long time, and as Bell thought
four weeks caine under that definition she began to talk
of returning home as-early as the first of June ; but with
a look of terror which startled both the girls, Dora
begged of them to stay.
" Don t leave me alone ! " she cried, clasping Bell s
hand pleadingly. " I shall die if you do ! Oh, stay,
you would if you knew "
She did not say what, and Bell gazed at her wonder-
ingly, but decided at last to stay a few weeks longer.
Nothing could please Jessie better, for she did not par
ticularly like Morrisville, and she did like Beechwood
very much. She liked the lake view, the hills, and the
people, and she liked the six noisy, frolicsome children,
with their good-humored sire, who treated her much as
he would have treated a playful, teasing child not his
own, but a guest. Many were the gambols she had with
Ben and Burt, and little Daisy, who loved her almost as
much as they loved Dora, while upon the matter-of fact
Squire she played off many a saucy trick, keeping him
constantly on the alert with plots and conspiracies, and
so making the time seem comparatively short, while he
waited for Dora s decision. But to Dora there was
nothing which brought comfort or diverted her for a
WAITING FOR THE ANSWER 165
moment from tho agonizing suspense which grew more
and more dreadful as the days went swiftly by, bringing
no answer to the letter sent to Dr. West.
" Is it anything in particular you are expecting ? "
Johnnie asked one day, when she turned so white and
shivered, as he returned from the post-office, with letters
for all except herself.
" Yes, no ! Oh, I don t know what I expect," she
answered, and leaning her head on Johnnie s shoulder,
she wept silently, while the boy tried to comfort her,
and became from that moment almost as anxious that she
should have a letter as she seemed herself.
Regularly each day at mail-time he was at the office,
and if there chanced to be a letter for Dora, as there
sometimes was, running to her eagerly, but saying always
to himself as the weai-y, disappointed look remained the
same :
" The right one has not come."
No, the right one had not come, and now it was more
than seven weeks since tho night when Dr. West had
been written to.
Bell and Jessie were really going home at last, and
their trunks stood in the hall ready for the early morning
train. Dora had exhausted every argument for a longer
stay, but Bell felt that they must go.
" They would come again in the autumn, perhaps, or
Dora should visit them. She would need rest by that
1G6 WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
time, sure," Bell said, and Dora shuddered as she thought
how she might never know rest or happiness again, save
as she found them in the discharge of what she was be
ginning to believe was her imperative duty.
" Letters ! letters ! " shouted Johnnie, running up th<
walk, his hand full of documents, one of which he \vas
closely inspecting. Spelling out the place where it was
mailed, he exclaimed, as he entered the room, " That s
from the doctor, for it says San Francisco. v
Instantly both Jessie and Dora started forward to
claim it, the hot blood dyeing the cheeks of the latter, but
subsiding instantly, and leaving only a livid hue as Jes
sie took the letter, saying :
" It is for me."
Sinking back in her chair, Dora pressed her hands
tightly together, as Jessie broke the seal and read, partly
to herself and partly aloud, that message from Dr.
West.
" Is still in San Francisco, at the hotel, which is
crowded with guests, and will compare very favorably
with the best houses in New York City. Begins to
think of coming home in the autumn. Mother s health
improved. Was pleased to get my letter," and so on.
This was the substance of what Jessie read, until she
reached a point where she stopped suddenly, and seemed
to be considering; then turning to Johnnie, she asked
him to do for her some trifling service, which would take
WAITING FOE TEE ANSWER. 167
him from tlio room. "When he was gone, sho said to
Dora:
" Maybe you ll scold, but it cannot now be helped. In
my letter to Dr. West, I said, or hinted, at what every
body is talking about, that is, you know, about your
marryiug Squire Russell, and this is the doctor s reply :
What you wrote of Miss Freeman took me by surprise,
but it will be a grand thing for the Squire. Tell her that
if she decides to mother those six children, she has iny
best wishes for her happiness. You say you had picked
her out for me. She would probably tell you differ
ently, as she has seemed to dislike rather than like me,
and according to your own story, bites her words off
crisp and short when I am mentioned. "
" Jessie, how could you ? What made you tell
him that? It was cruel of you, when I do like him,"
Dora cried, her face for an instant crimsoning with pas
sion and then growing deathly white as she felt her des
tiny crushing down upon her without a hope of es
cape.
" Because you do," Jessie retorted, anxious to defend
herself. " You are just as spiteful as can be when I
tease you about him, and I don t care ! "
Jessie was vexed at herself for having told Dr. West
what she had, and vexed at Dora for resenting it ; but
she never dreamed of the terrible pain throbbing in
Dora s heart, as with a mighty effort she forced back the
168 WAITING FOR THE ANSWER.
piteous, despairing cry rising to her lips, and brought
there a smile instead, saying pleasantly :
" Well, never mind it now. It does not matter ; only
Dr. West has been so kind to us in sickness that I ought
to like him, and do. Does he say what time he will be
home?"
Jessie was thoroughly deceived, and after ascertaining
that he merely spoke of coming in the autumn, went to
her room, as there were a few things she must yet do for
her morrow s journey.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE ENGAGEMENT.
Extract from Dora s Diary.
S it I? Is it I ? Oh, is IT I, sitting here to
night with this pressure on my brain, this tight
ness about my eyes, this anguish in my heart, this
feeling of desperation urging me on to meet anything,
everything, even death itself? If he received Jessie s
letter, he did mine, of course, for they went together ;
and why not answer me, instead of sending that cold,
mocking message ? If people ever die of shame surely I
ought to die, for did I not almost beg of him to say
again what he said at Anna s grave, to tell me that he
loved me and would save me ? Yes, it all comes to me
now, all that I wrote and what it meant. And he does
not respond. If he ever cared, he does not now, and he
spurns my offered love. He wishes me happiness ; aye,
and why should I not be happy ? Many a woman would
gladly be the mother of Margaret s six children ; and
shall I, her sister, who promised so solemnly, refuse ?
No, John; no, Johnnie; no, Margaret; I will grant
your wish. Dr. West, when he comes home, shall have
8
170 THE ENGAGEMENT.
no reason to believe that Dora Freeman ever thought of
him, or spoke of him, except in the crisp, cross man
ner which Jessie has described. John must wait a year
from the time Margaret died, but I can give him my de
cision now, and I will then go to Bell and Jessie, and ask
them to be my bridesmaids."
There was a pause made in the diary, and leaning her
aching head upon her hands, Dora thought and thought
until the hardness softened, when, resuming her pen, she
wrote as follows :
tf I believe it is my duty to be John s wife, and the
mother of Margaret s children. It is true I did not so
understand her, but that was what she meant, and I
promised solemnly. I can love John, or at least I can
keep myself from hating him, knowing how happy I
make him, and I do love his children, especially Johnnie.
O Johnnie, I should die if it were not for you ! "
The pen dropped from the trembling fingers, and
again the face was buried in the hands, while Dora
nerved herself to do what she vainly imagined was her
duty. Squire Russell she knew was in the library, Bell
and Jessie in their room, Johnnie in the street, and the
other children in bed. There was nothing in the way,
and she would go at once, so that the worst might be
over as soon as possible. Without a moment longer in
which to consider, she rose, and gliding down the stairs,
knocked at the library door.
THE ENGAGEMENT. 171
" Come in," the Squire said, his voice and manner
changing at once when he saw who his visitor was.
" O Dora, is it you ? " he said, rising to his feet, while
his face glowed with pleasure.
" Yes, John," and Dora spoke hurriedly. " It is most
seven weeks since I said you must wait for my answer.
I can give it now as well as any time. I will be your
wife."
Not a muscle changed as she said this, neither did her
voice tremble, but rang out clear aud decided, and it may
be a little sharp and unnatural. Dora was very calm,
far more so than the Squire, who, taken by surprise,
started, and trembled, and blushed, and stammered like
some guilty school-boy. This state of things, however,
lasted only for a moment, and then rousing himself,
Squire Russell drew the unresisting girl to his side, and
kissing her forehead, said tenderly :
" God bless you, Dora. You have made me very
happy. I was beginning to think it could not be, and
was learning to live without you, but that makes my joy
the greater. God bless my Dora, and show me how to
make her happy ! "
Had the Squire followed the promptings of his nature
he would have caressed her lovingly, just as he did Mar
garet when she stood thus beside him ; but remembering
Johnnie s warnings, he desisted, and it was well he did,
else Dora had hated him. Now she suffered him to wind
172 THE ENGAGEMENT.
his arms around her, while he told her again how happy
she had made him, and blessed her for it.
" Dora," he said, and now he smoothed her hair, " a
man of forty is not called old, and I am only that, but ]
am fourteen years your senior, while my six children
make me seem older still, but my heart is young, and I
will try so hard to stay with you till you too are old.
I ll go with you wherever you wish to go, do anything
you like, and never frown upon the things which I know
young girls love. I will not be an ogre guarding my
girlish wife, but a proud, happy husband, doing that
wife s bidding."
Dora could not repress her tears, he spoke so kindly,
so earnestly, and she knew he meant all he was saying,
while she was deceiving him. She did not think either
that she was doing very wrong in thus deceiving him.
It was her duty to be his wife, and it was not her duty
to analyze her feelings in his sight, unless he asked her
for such analysis, which he was not likely to do, for his
was not a mind quick to perceive, while suspicion was
something to which he was a total stranger. He had al
ways admired Dora, and latterly he had learned to love
her devotedly, feeling now that his affection was in part
returned, else she had not deliberately come to him and
said, " I will be your wife." It made him very happy to
know she had said so, and in his happiness he failed to
notice the pallor of her face, the drooping of her swollen
THE ENGAGEMENT. 173
eyelids, and her apparent wish to get as far from him as
possible. Margaret had never been demonstrative, and
he hardly expected Dora to be different, so the poor, de
luded man was satisfied, and when Dora, who would have
everything settled at. once, said to him :
" We will wait a year, till next autumn," he knew
what she meant, and answered readily.
" Yes, if you like, though Margaret said it did not
matter how soon, the earlier the better for the children s
sake."
" I d rather it should be a year," was Dora s quiet re
ply, to which the Squire assented, and then, though he so
much wished her to stay, he opened the door for her to
pass out, as he saw that she desired it.
Half an hour later and Bell Verner, who was just fall
ing to sleep, was startled by a knock, and Dora asked
permission to enter.
" What is it ? Who s come ? " Jessie asked in a
dreamy tone, lifting her curly head from the pillow, just
as Bell unlocked the door, and Dora stepped into the
room.
She was very calm now and decided. The matter was
fixed now beyond recall, and she felt a great deal better.
Sitting down upon the foot of the bed, she said to Bell
ind Jessie :
" I could not let you go home without telling you
something which may perhaps surprise you."
174 THE ENGAGEMENT.
" Oh, T know. I can guess. You are going to marry
Mr. Russell," Jessie cried, and Dora answered :
" Yes. It was Margaret s wish, expressed to both of
us, but that is nothing. I begin to feel old ; oh, so old,"
and Dora shuddered as she said it. " John is good and
will make me a kind husband. It is true that once, when
a very young girl like Jessie, I had in my mind another
idea for a husband. All girls do in their teens, I guess,
but when we get to be twenty -six we begin to lose the
fancy man and look for something solid."
This she said to Bell, as if expecting her concurrence
rather than that of madcap Jessie. But the contrary
was the fact, for Jessie approved the match far more than
her sister. Squire Russell was splendid, sho said, and
would let a body do just as she had a mind, which was
a great deal nicer than a dictatorial, overbearing fellow of
twenty-eight. Yes, she d give her consent, and she be
gan to whistle, " Come haste to the wedding," as she
nestled back among the pillows, wondering how she
should feel to be engaged to Squire Russell. Bell on the
contrary saw things in their true light, and she merely
replied :
"I am somewhat surprised, I will acknowledge, but if
you love him that is all that is necessary."
She was looking directly at Dora, but in the dim
moonlight the white, haggard face was not plainly dis-
cernedj and Bell continued :
THE ENGAGEMENT. 175
" I did think you liked Dr. West, and was positive he
liked you."
" Oh, fie," and Jessie sprang up again, " Dora hates
him, while he, well, I guess he likes all the girls, that
is, likes to talk with and flatter them ; any way, he has
said a great many complimentary things to me, and I
knew he meant nothing. They say his heart is buried in
that grave in Morrisville. I picked him out for Dora
once, you know, and that s all the good it did. Marry
the Squire, and let me be bridesmaid."
" Will you ? " Dora asked. " Will you and Bell both
officiate ? "
Jessie assented eagerly, but Bell hesitated. She could
not make it seem real that Dora Freeman was to become
the wife of Squire Russell. Something would prevent it.
At last, however, as Dora urged a reply, she said :
" Perhaps I will, if when the time arrives you still
wish for two."
The clock was striking eleven when Dora quitted the-
apartment of the Misses Verner, but late as it was John
nie was waiting for her by her door. He had heard the
glad news from his father, and he caught Dora round the
neck, exclaiming :
" I know, I ve heard, the governor told me. You
are, you are my mother. I never was so happy in my
life, was you ? "
They were now in Dora s room, where the gas was
176 THIS ENGAGEMENT.
burning, disclosing to Johnnie a face which made Mm
start with fear, it was so unnaturally white.
" Auntie," he exclaimed, bending over her, as, reclining
upon the bed, she buried her head in the pillows, " what
makes you so white, when I m so glad, and father, too ?
I never saw him so pleased. Why, the tears danced in
his eyes as he told me, while I blubbered like a calf; and
you are crying, too, but not as father did, or I. O
my ! what is it ? This is so different. Auntie, Auntie,
you are in a fit ! " and Johnnie gazed awe-struck upon
the little form which shook convulsively as Dora tried to
smother her deep sobs. " I ll go for father," Johnnie con
tinued, and then Dora looked up, telling him to stay
there where he was.
" But, Auntie, what is the matter? " he asked. " Do
girls always cry so when they are engaged ? What
makes your tears run so like rivers, and so big ? It
must hurt awfully to be engaged. O dear, dear ! I am
crying, too ! " and then the excited boy wound both arms
around Dora s neck and drew her head upon his shoulder,
where it lay, while Dora s tears literally ran in rivers
down her cheeks.
But the weeping did her good, and she grew very quiet
at last, and listened while Johnnie told her how good he
was going to be, and how he would influence the others
to be good, too.
" We will all be so happy," he said, " that mothor, if
TEE ENGAGEMENT. 177
she could look at us, would be so glad. Father will read
to us winter nights, or you ll play chess with him and
sing to us youngsters, and summers we ll go to lots of
places, and you shall have heaps of handsome dresses.
You re not so tall as mother, and it won t take so many
yards, so you can have more. I mean to buy one any
how, with some money I ve laid up. I guess it will be
red silk, like Jessie s, and you ll have it made low-neck,
like hers, with little short sleeves. You ve got nice,
pretty arms, whiter than Jessie s."
Remembering how much his mother had thought of
dress, Johnnie naturally concluded it to be the Open
Sesame to every woman s heart, and so talked on until
she sent him away, for she would rather be alone with
her own tumultaous thoughts.
CHAPTER XVII.
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S JOURNAL.
" SAN FRANCISCO, June.
flO I believe it now, after the first stunning effect
is over, and I sit here alone thinking calmly of
wha^ came to me in Jessie Verner s letter ? Do
I believe that Dora will marry her brother-in-law, re
membering as I do the expression of her face when she
sat by the two graves and I told her of Anna ? Can
there be jealousy where there is no love ? I think not,
and she was jealous of my commendations of Jessie.
Oh, was I deceived, and did her coldness and ill-nature
mean more than I was willing to admit? It is very hard
to give her up, loving her as I do, but God knows best
what is for my good. When I set Anna above Him He
took her away, and now He will take my Dora. It is
sheer selfishness, I know, and yet I cannot help feeling
that I would rather she were lying by Anna s side than
to see her Squire Russell s wife. It is a most unnatural
match, for there is no bond of sympathy in their natures.
Dora must be unhappy after the novelty is gone. Darling
Dora, it is not wicked to speak thus of her now, as there
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S JOURNAL. 179
is no certainty in the case, only a surmise, which, never
theless, has almost broken my heart, for I feel sure that
whether she marry the Squire or not, she is lost to me.
She does not care for me. She never did, else why does
she grow so cross and crisp when my name is mentioned ?
Alas ! that I should ever have thought otherwise, and
built up a beautiful future which only Dora was to share
with me. I am afraid to record on paper how dear she
is to me, or how constantly she has been in my mind since
I parted from her. How anxiously I waited for some
reply to my letter, and how disappointed I was in the
arrival of every mail. I wonder if I did well to answer
Jessie so soon, and send that message to Dora ? I am
confident now that it was not a right spirit which prompt
ed me to act so hastily. I felt that Dora had broken
faith with me, that she should have waited at least the
year, that in some way she was injuring me, and so vin
dictive pride dictated the words I sent her. May I be
forgiven for the wrong ; and if Dora is indeed to be the
bride of her sister s husband, may she be happy with him,
and never know one iota of the pain and suffering her mar
riage will bring to me.
"Our stay in California has been very pleasant, even
though I have failed thus far in what was the secret
motive which led me here, the hope of finding the man
to whom that letter was addressed long years ago, Robin s
father, and, as I believe, Anna s husband. We have beeu
180 EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S JOURNAL.
at this hotel just three weeks to-day, and mother likes it
better than the private boarding-house we left. Friends
seem to spring up around us wherever we go, and I be
lieve I have nearly as many patients in San Francisco as
I ever had at home. For this good fortune, which I did
not expect, I thank my Heavenly Father, praying that
the means I use may be blessed to the recovery of those
who so willingly put their lives in my hands.
" How that poor fellow in the next room groans, and
how the sound of his moaning makes me long to hasten
to his side and alleviate, if possible, the fever wliich they
say is consuming him. Poor fellow, he was making
money so fast, I hear, and hoarding it so carefully for his
mother, he told his acquaintance, and now he is dying
here alone, far from his mother, who would so gladly
smooth his dying pillow. I saw him when they carried
him through the hall on his arrival from the mountains,
and something in the shape of his head and the way the
hair curled around it, made me start, it was so like
Robert s. But the name, when I asked it, drove the
hope away : John Maxwell, or Max, as he is generally
called by those who know him best. He has been here
for years, steadily accumulating money, and winning, as
it would seem, scores of friends. Even the head cham
ber-maid, when she heard " young Max " was ill, and
was to be brought here, evinced more womanly interest
than I supposed her capable of doing. He must be grow-
EXTRACT FROM DR. WEST S JOURNAL. 181
ing worse, his meanings increase so fast, and there seems
to be a consultation going on within his room, while my
name is spoken by some one, a friend too it would seem,
for he says :
" I wish you would try him at least. I have great
faith in that mode of practice.
" They are going to send for me ; they are coming
now to the door ; they are saying to me :
" Dr. West, win you step in and see what you think
of poor Max s case ?
CHAPTER XVIII.
POOR MAX.
HAT was what they called him at the hotel,
which had been to him a home for years, and
you would know by the intonation of their
voices that he was a favorite with all. He was very sick,
burning with fever, and talking at intervals of his
mother, of Dick, and of another whose name the attend
ants could not well make out. It was of his sweetheart,
the chamber-maid surmised, for in the pocket of his vest,
which she hung away, she had found a daguerrotype of a
young girl, whose marvellous beauty she had never seen
excelled.
" Poor Mr. Max ! he must have loved her so much !
I wonder where she is to-day ? " she said, softly, as she
continued to scan the lovely face smiling upon her from
the worn, old-fashioned case.
Alas ! the original of that picture had for many a
year been mouldering back to dust, and poor Max, who
had loved and wronged her so much, was whispering her
name in rain. He was growing worse, his mirse feared,
and so at last she sent for Dr. West, of whose skill she
- 4.
POOR MAX. 183
had heard so much, and who in a few minutes stepped
into the closely darkened room.
" It seemed as if the light worried him," the nurse
said, in a whisper, as she saw the doctor glance towards
the curtained windows.
" Very likely ; but I should like to see him for
once," was the doctor s reply, as he took the hot hand in
his.
Max s face, which, within a day or two, had grown
very thin and was now purple with fever, was turned
away from the doctor, who counted the rapid pulse, while
the nurse admitted a ray of light, which shone full upon
the sick man s pillow, and made Dr. West start suddenly,
and turn whiter even than the broad forehead round
which the damp brown hair was curling. Then he bent
anxiously over his patient, turning him more to the light,
where he could see him distinctly. Did he recognize
anything familiar in that sunken face, where the beard
was growing so heavily, anything which carried him
back to his Northern home, where in his childhood every
pastime had been shared by another, and that other his
twin brother ? Did he see anything which brought to
him thoughts of Anna, dead so long ago, or of Robin,
who died when the last summer flowers were blooming ?
Yes ; and kneeling by the bedside he whispered, " Robert,
Robert, is it you ? "
The bright eyes were open and fixed upon him, but
m
184: POOR MAX.
with a vacant stare, while a second look at the flushed
face brought a doubt into the doctor s mind.
" He is like my brother Robert, and yet he is not like
him," he thought, as he continued to scrutinize the fea
tures which puzzled him so much.
" Mother will know," he said at last; and going to his
mother, he said to her hurriedly, " Come with me, and
tell if you ever saw this Max before."
He was greatly excited, but not more so than his
mother, who felt intuitively the shock awaiting her.
" Open that blind wide, and put back that heavy cur
tain," the doctor said to the frightened nurse, who quickly
obeyed his orders, and then waited to see what would
happen next.
Max was talking and counting on his fingers till he
came to twenty.
" Yes, twenty, that s it," he said ; " that s the way the
paper read; just twenty years of age, and Dick and I are
six years older. Dick loved her, too ; he ought to have
married her. Dick was a trump."
" What does he say ? What does he say ? O Rich
ard, what does he say ? " Mrs. West almost screamed, as
she bent down so low that the hot fever breath lifted her
silver hair.
Richard made no answer, nor was there need, for
the mother instinct recognized the boy, the wayward,
wandering JKobert, mourned for as dead during so many
POOR MAX. 185
dreary years, while the mother love, forgetting all the
past, cried out, " My boy, my boy, my Robert, my child !
God has given you back to me at last ! Praised be His
name ! "
For an instant something like reason flashed over the
wasted face, but it passed away, and to the mother s con-
tmued murmurings of love there came only incoherent
mutterings of the mountains, the mines, and stocks which
seemed to have been substituted for the thoughts of
the twenty years and the trump of a Dick, now minister
ing to the mother, who had fainted and was carried from
the room. But she did not stay away long. Her place
was by Robert, she said, and she went back to his side,
saying to those around her, " He is my boy : he left me
years ago, but I have found him at last."
People gossip in California as well as elsewhere, and
the hotel was soon full of surmises and wonder, as peo
ple repeated to each other that the man known as Max
was Robert West, who had taken another name and come
among them, for what reason none could guess. The
doctor and his mother knew the people would talk, but
they did not heed it during the days when with agonizing
suspense they hung over the bed of the prodigal, watch
ing for some token of amendment, and praying that the
erring one might not be taken from them now and leave
the past a darker mystery than ever. He did not talk a
186 POOR MAX.
great deal, but when he did it was mostly of home scenes
in which Anna and Dick were always associated.
Once when they sat alone and Mrs. West was resting
in her room, Richard said to Robert, who had spoken of
Anna as of some one there with him, " You mean your
wife, Anna West ; you know you married her privately."
For an instant the wild eyes flashed in Richard s face,
and then the delirious man replied, " Did she tell you
so?"
" Not exactly, but I inferred as much, for when she
lay dying, she said, Call my baby for his father, and
when I whispered Robert, she nodded assent. They
are both dead now, Anna and little Robin. Your wife,
your baby, which never saw its father," Richard contin
ued, wishing to impress some idea upon his brother s
mind.
But in vain, for Robert did not take the sense of what
he heard, except indeed the word baby, which he kept re
peating to himself, laughing insanely as he did so,
" Anna s baby ; veiy funny, very queer, when she was
only a child herself," he would whisper, and that was all
which Richard achieved by speaking of the dead.
But there came a day when the stupor passed from
brain and head, leaving the latter free from pain and the
former clear and bright. He had been sleeping, and
when he woke only Richard was with him, and he was
sitting where he did not at first observe the eyes fastened
POOR MAX. 187
so curiously upon him, as Eobert "West s heart alternately
beat with hope and fear. He could not be mistaken, he
said to himself. It was no dream that his brother had
been there with him, aye, was there still, looking older,
sadder, but his brother all the same. Dick, the kindest,
best brother in the world.
" Richard," he said at last very softly, and Richard
started, and bent over the sick man, whose eyes read his
face for an instant, and then filled with great hot tears,
as, winding his arms around the doctor s neck, he sobbed,
" It is my brother, tis Dick ; and you will forgive me.
I ve got the money safe, honestly earned, too, every cent ;
more than enough to pay the debt, which I heard you
were paying for me. Dear old Dick, we will be happy
yet, but tell me first that you forgive me, tell me second
how you found me, and tell me third of mother, and
all"
He did not mention Anna, and Richard, in his reply,
only answered the questions directly put.
" Call mother," Robert said, when told that she was
there, and in a moment she was weeping on the pillow of
her erring, but, as it would seem, deeply repentant child,
for he repeated to her what he had said to Richard about
the money, adding, " And this fall I was coming home to
buy back the dear old place, if possible ; I was, mother,
I was ; I ve been so bad and wicked, but you will forgive
me now, for since I left New York I have not been guilty
188 POOR MAX.
of a single dishonorable act. Ask the people here, they
know. They will tell you that among them all there is
no one more popular than Max I go by that name,"
and Robert s face crimsoned as he said this last.
In his anxiety that his mother should forgive and think
well of him, he grew so much excited that all she and
Richard could do was to soothe him into quiet by assur
ances of forgiveness and love. He was too weak to talk
longer, and he lay perfectly still, holding his mother s
hand and gazing into the dear face which bent so fondly
over him. Once his lips quivered with some deep emo
tion, and when Richard asked what he would say, he an
swered :
" Mother has changed so much, her hair has all
turned white. Was it for me, mother ? "
" Not wholly, Robert ; it turned about the time when
we lost Anna," was Mrs. West answer.
Instantly the sick man s eyelids closed, and one after
another the big tears rolled down his sunken cheeks, leav
ing a red, shining track, such as bitter, scalding tears al
ways leave, but he made no comment, and Anna was not
mentioned again until two days had passed, and he was
so much better that he sat up in bed, propped on pillows,
with his mother at his side, half supporting him. Then
suddenly breaking a silence which had fallen upon them,
he exclaimed:
" It was an unfortunate hour that saw me installed as
POOR MAX. 189
our great Uncle Jason s book-keeper and confidential
clerk. He trusted ine so entirely, and there were such
large sums of money daily passing through my hands,
that the temptation was a great one to a person of my
expensive tastes and habits. I cannot tell just when I
took the first five dollars, replacing it as soon as possible,
and then finding the second sin so much easier than the
first. It was not a sin, I said then, as did others of my
companions who were in the habit of doing the same
thing, and who led me on from bad to worse, while all
the time my uncle believed me a pattern of honesty. If
I had not heard that a part of Uncle Jason s fortune right
fully belonged to us, I do not believe I should have fallen
so low. As it was, I made myself think that what I took
was mine, and after I learned to gamble it was ten times
worse. There is a fascination about those dens of
iniquity which you cannot understand, and it proved my
ruin. I played every night, sometimes losing, some
times winning, and gradually staking more and more,
until at last I bet so heavily that forgery was the conse
quence. I don t know what made me do it, for I knew
I could not replace that 20,000 dollars, and when the
deed was done there was no alternative but to run
away. Assuming the name of John Maxwell, I went to
England first, and then to California. Uncle Jason had
so much faith in me that you know he believed me mur-
190 POOR MAX.
dered, until the fraud was discovered, when it seems he
behaved most generously, suppressing the facts, and
after an interview with you, my brother, consented to
keep the whole thing still, provided the money was in
time refunded."
" Who told you this ? " both Richard and his mother
exclaimed, but Robert only replied:
" I heard it, and resolved, if possible, to earn that
money and pay it back myself. The voyage out sobered
me into a better man, for, mother, your prayers, said
over me when I was a child, rang continually in my
ears, until I, too, ventured to whisper each day the
words, Lead us not into temptation, saying them at
first more from habit than anything else, and afterwards
because I learned to have faith in them, learned to be
lieve there was something in that petition which did
keep me from falling lower. I was not good as you
term goodness, and had I died I should assuredly have
been lost; but within a few short months there has been
a change, so that what I once was doing for your sakes I
now do, I trust, from higher, holier motives ; and oh ! I
had so much need of forgiveness, for had I not wronged
everybody, aJfd you, my brother, most of all ? "
There was a mutual pressure of hands between the
brothers, and then they who listened hoped to hear of
Anna next, but of her Robert was still silent, and they
POOR MAX. 191
suffered him to take his own course, following him with
breathless interest as he told of his life in the mines, and
how he had been successful beyond his most sanguine
hopes, how friends had sprung up around him, and all
things had conspired to make him happy, were it not for
the dreadful memories of the past which haunted him
continually.
" I should have written when I learned that I was
safe from a felon s doom," he said, " but with this in
formation came news of so terrible a nature that I was
stunned for many months, so that I cared little what
became of me, and when feeling came back again, I said
I ll wait until I have the money as a sure peace offering.
I had it almost earned once, two years ago, but by a
great reverse I lost so much that I was compelled to
wait yet longer, wait, as it seems, till you came here to
find me. It is all a dream to me yet that you are here,
and that I, perhaps, shall breathe again my native air,
and visit the old home. Is it greatly changed ? "
" Many would think West Lawn improved," Richard
replied, " but to us who loved Anna it can never be the
same."
There was another silence, and then Richard, who
could no longer restrain himself, exclaimed :
" Robert, if you know aught which can throw a ray of
light on Anna s dark face, in pity tell us what it is !
192 POOR MAX.
You do know, yon. must know! Was Anna yonr
wife?"
Richard could hear the beatings of his own and hia
brother s heart as he waited for the answer, which, when
it came, was a decided " Yes, Anna was my wife 1 "
CHAPTER XIX.
ANNA.
| HE summer moonlight was shining into the
sick-room, where, with Richard and his mother
beside him, Robert West was summoning nerve
and courage to tell the story they were waiting so anxiously
to hear. With the assertion that " Anna was my wife,"
he had fainted, and since then a night and a day had in
tervened, during which no word of the past had escaped
his lips. But now that he was stronger, he had said to
his mother and brother, " Sit beside me, and if I can I
will tell you of Anna."
They needed no second bidding, but gathered closely
to him, and .there, in the quiet room, Robert West began
the story, in which there was a slight recapitulation of
what he had be/ore told, but which wjLll help to en
lighten the reader with regard to Robert s past.
" I cannot remember the time when I did not love
Anna," he said, fixing his eyes upon the ceiling. fc As
a boy I made no secret of it, but as I grew older I pre
tended not to care for her more than for any other, and
called her a little doll, you know, but it was mere pre-
194 ANNA.
tense, for I loved the very air she breathed ; and when I
heard she was engaged to Dick, I cried as young men of
twenty-two seldom cry. You know I had then been in
New York two years, and that soon after this I was re
ceived into Uncle Jason s employ, and trusted by him
with everything. For my father s sake, he trusted me,
he used to say, never dreaming how unlike the father was
the son.
" After losing Anna I cared little for my self-respect,
and thjsn first commenced the process of taking five or ten
dollars, as I chanced to need it. This I always replaced,
and so conscience was satisfied, particularly after I found
that other young men, who stood as well as myself, did
the same. I cannot account for it, but I now believe
that my apparent indifference to Anna attracted rather
than repelled her, for when I was at home I used to try
the experiment of being very attentive, just to see how
she would brighten with pleasure, but it was not until
my last visit, made the August before I ran away, that
the idea entered my brain of taking her from Richard.
He was gone for two weeks, you will remember, and I
improved my time to so good advantage that when I
finally left Morrisville, I had won a half promise from
Anna that she would talk with him and ask to be re
leased. She did not promise this willingly, for her strong
Bense of right made her question the justice of such an
act, and all my arguments were necessar p to wring that
ANNA. 195
promise from her. We were out in the graveyard, Dick
on that little bench, you know where."
" Yes, I know ; " and Richard s reply was like a
groan, as Anna and Dora came up before him, connected
with that rustic bench.
" It was a moonlight night, and we stayed there a long,
long time, mother thinking wo were at some neighbor s
housOj while you, my brother, were away, never dream
ing how falsely I was dealing with you. But Anna
thought of you, pleading most for you, even while she
confessed her love for me, and saying that daily inter
views with you made you more like her brother. And
there I had the advantage ; I was comparatively a
stranger, while the city air and manner I had studied to
acquire were not without their effect on Anna. She was
almost an angel, but human still, and so the old story
was again repeated. The city fop, with sin enough upon
his soul to have driven that pure young girl from his
sight forever, could she have known it, was preferred to
the country boy. But it was hard work, and more than
once I gave up in despair, as, wringing her little hands,
she cried :
" O Robert, don t tempt me so. I do love Rich
ard, or I did before you came, and he is so good, so noble.
God will never forgive me if I deceive him so dreadfully.
Please, Robert, don t tempt me any more.
" You can imagine how I answered her. There were
196 ANNA.
kisses and caresses, and assurances that you would rather
give her up than take her when her heart was not your
own, and so the victory was won, and I acted a most
cowardly part. I made Anna promise not to speak of
me when talking with you, Richard, or hint in any way
that I was the cause of her changed feelings toward you.
I then returned to New York, while she asked to be re
leased from her engagement. She wrote to me once, bit
terly condemning herself for her deception, as she termed
it, and earnestly begging permission to tell you all, but I
refused, and held her to her promise ; and so matters
stood when you decided upon sending her to Boston.
You know she came first to New York to Uncle Jason s,
whose wife is both deaf and half blind, so she was not in
my way at all. After you returned home, Dick, I was
there every night, and as Uncle Jason podded over his
paper in his study, while Aunt Eliza nodded over her
knitting in the parlor, I had every opportunity for press
ing my suit, rejoicing when I saw how I could sway
Anna at my will. She was easily influenced by those
she loved and trusted "
Here Robert s voice trembled, and he paused a mo
ment ere he resumed :
" She believed that I was good, and this belief, more
than anything I could say, lead her to listen to me. She
was to leave on Monday for Boston, and on Saturday I
took her for a drive through the city, and when she re-
ANNA. 197
turned at night she was my wife. How I accomplished
it I can hardly tell, for at first Anna refused ontright, but
she was finally persuaded, and at the house of a clergy
man whom I knew by reputation the ceremony was per
formed. It was the original plan that when her visit was
over I should accompany her home and announce our
marriage, after which she should return with me to New
York, but subsequent events made this impossible. My
uncle had commissioned me to telegraph to the friends in
Boston that I would be there on Monday with Anna, and
he kindly gave me permission to remain a few days, or
even longer if I liked. This I professed to have done,
but it was a lie I told my uncle, who, believing Anna to
be Dick s betrothed, had no suspicion that I cared for her
in the least except as my sister. After leaving her at his
door on Saturday night, I pui-posely did not see her again
until Monday, when, according to arrangement, I went
ostensibly to accompany her to Boston. Anna knew
nothing of my real intentions, and it was some time before
she understood that we were going to Albany instead of
New Haven. In much surprise she questioned rne, turn
ing very white and bursting into tears when the truth
dawned upon her, and she saw how she was becoming
more entangled in the deception. "We stayed in Albany
j at the City Hotel until Thursday morning, and in those
three days I was, I believe, as perfectly happy as is pos
sible for mortal man to be. And Anna was happy too.
198 ANNA.
In her love for mo she forgot all else, and I tasted fully
of the bliss it was to call that lovely, gentle -creature wife.
I remained in Boston one night, but Friday found me
again in New York, while one week from the next Satur-
urday night, O, mother ! if I could only blot out that
Saturday night from, the past, but I cannot, and I must
tell you how low your boy fell. Knowing how good and
pure Anna was I resolved that henceforth my life should
be such as she could approve, and to this end I would
avoid all my old associates, I said, and never again fre
quent their haunts or come in contact with them. Chief
among these associates was a Stanley, who had first taught
me to play, and who had constantly hovered near me as
my evil genius. On Saturday, he came into my office,
and told me of a rare specimen from Cincinnati who was
terribly conceited, but whom I could beat so easily. He
lias heaps of money, he said, and if you choose you can
make a fortune in an hour. , Come to-night, and you are
sure to win.
" Instantly there flashed over me the thought f if
Anna could only dress and live like the ladies of Madison
Square, but with it came the knowledge of how she would
disapprove, and I hesitated. The temptation was a
strong one, and as I continued to listen I felt my good
resolutions giving way. Just for once, and that should be
the last, I said, consenting to join my comrade, who evi
dently believed all he said of the stranger. Ten o clock
ANNA. 199
found me at Stanley s rooms, opposite my antagonist,
whom I at once pronounced a fool. Eleven found me
the winner of a considerable amount. Twelve o clock,
my lucky star was still in the ascendant, but when two
o clock of that Sunday morning struck, I was ruined, and
my opponent held my note for $20,000.
" Desperate, distracted, what could I do but forge
my uncle s name for the amount, taking the precaution
to draw from three or four banks where he had funds de
posited, and this I did without a thought of the conse
quences ; but when I woke to the peril of my situation I
was mad with fear, and determined to run away. But
first I wrote to Anna, telling her I was going, but with
held the reason Avhy. After the letter was sent I was
seized with a terror lest she by some means should be
tray me, and so I be brought to justice. My love for her
was strong, but dread of a prison life was stronger. Of
Uncle Jason I asked and received permission to visit
Morrisville for a week, and when I left him he thought
I was going home, but I went instead to Boston, reach
ing there in the night, and next morning hiring a boy to
take a note to Anna. She was alone when it was deliv
ered, as the family were out on some shopping expedi
tion. In much alarm she came to the Revere, where I
was to meet her, and there the horrible truth was re
vealed that she was the wife of a felon. She had not re
ceived my letter, and what I told her was wholly unex-
200 ANNA.
pected. She did not fuint, nor scream, nor even reproach
me with my sin. She merely sank upon her knees and
prayed that I might bo forgiven, while into her eyes and
face there stole a look which I know now to have been
the germ of insanity which afterwards came upon her.
" Anna, I said, when her prayer was ended and she
sat with her face upon the table, I am going to England
in a vessel which sails to-night, and from there to Cali
fornia, assuming the name of John Maxwell, and you
must not betray me.
" Betray you ! O Robert ! " and the face she lifted
up looked as grieved as if I had struck her.
" I know you will not do it voluntarily, I said, * but
you must not make yourself liable to be questioned. No
one knows I am here. No one knows you are my wife,
and no one must know it. Not yet, at least not till it is
settled somehow, and I come back to claim you, or send
for you to join me.
" Again she looked wistfully at me, and I continued :
If Uncle Jason knew you were my wife, lie would ques
tion and cross-question you until he fright%ed it out of
you, and I should be captured. I deserve to go to prison,
I know, but Anna, darling, think how terrible for one so
young to be shut out from this world, wearing my life
away. Promise, Anna, and I will be a better man ; I
vail earn enough to pay it back. Promise, if, indeed, you
love me.
ANNA. 201
<{ I was kneeling at her feet, sueing almost for my life.
I was her husband, arid she loved me, erring as I was, and
she promised at last to keep her marriage a secret until I
said she might tell. I ought to have been satisfied with
her word, but each moment the dread of arrest grew
greater, and taking the Bible which lay upon the table, I
said, Swear with your hand on this.
" Then she hesitated, but I carried my point, and with
her hand on the book she loved so much, she took an oath
not to tell, and fell fainting to the floor. I restored her
as soon as possible, and led her through obscure streets
back to Mr. Haverleigh s dwelling. I dared not kiss her
as I parted with her at the gate, for it was broad day, but
I shall never forget the look in her eyes as they rested on
my face, while she said, Good-by, Robert. Ask God
daily to forgive you as I shall do.
" I wrung her cold, damp hand, and hurried away,
seeing the Ilaverleigh carriage drive up the street just as I
turned into another, and knew that Anna must have been
safe in her room when the family returned."
" Poor Anna," sobbed Mrs. West. " That was the
time when Rosa Haverleigh found her upon the floor
totally unconscious. She was never herself after that,
and as they could not rouse her to an interest in anything,
they sent her back to us, a white-faced, frightened, half
crazed creature even then. O Robert, my son, how
much sorrow you have wrought," and the poor mother
9*
202 ANNA.
wept piteously as she remembered the young girl whom she
in thought had wronged, and who she now knew had died
for the erring Robert, and kept silence even when to do
so was to bring disgrace and death upon herself.
tc Truly Anna died a martyr s death," Richard mur
mured, feeling now how glad he was that he had held her
in his arms and kissed her quivering lips with the kiss of
forgiveness, when all else stood aloof as from a sinful
thing.
"Yes, a martyr s death," Robert repeated sadly; "and
some time you will tell me how she died and about her
child, but now I hasten on with the part which concerns
myself. I went to England and then to California, work
ing in the gold mines like a dog, and literally starving
myself for the sake of gain. I would pay that debt, I
said, and I would yet be worthy of Anna. It was some
time in October that I stumbled upon a Boston paper in
which was a notice of Anna s death, put in by the Haver-
leighs, I presume, as they were greatly attached to her. I
knew it was -my Anna, and that I had killed her, and for
a time reason and life forsook me. I was sick for \Veeks,
and when I came back to life, Stanley, the man who first
taught me to sin, was taking care of me. He, too, had
come to the land of gold, finding me by mere chance, and
knowing at once that I was not John Maxwell, as I had
given out. But he betrayed no secrets, and since then
has proved the old adage that there is honor even among
ANNA. 203
thieves. By some means he had ascertained that in con
sideration of a sum of money paid by you, together with
your promise of the whole, Uncle Jason had concluded
to say nothing of my forgery. He had also heard that
West Lawn was sold, and I knew well what prompted
this sacrifice, and cursed myself for the sinful wretch
I was. Stanley did not remain in California longer than
spring, but returned to New York, from which place he
has occasionally written and given me tidings of home.
At my request he has at four different times been, to
Morrisville, and reported to me what he learned. In this
way I heard of Robin, and I know that thoughts of him
have helped to make me a better man.
" By some strange chance Stanley was there when
Robin died, and mingling with those who followed my
child to the grave, he saw you, mother, and Dick, and a
young lady was with you, he said, a fair young girl, whom
Dick called Dora. Is she to be your wife ? " and he turned
towards Richard, who, with a half moan, replied, " I
hoped so once, but I have lost her now."
Robert pressed the hands of his brother in token of
sympathy, and then continued : <c I never saw my boy, but
I wept bitterly when I heard he was dead, while my de
sire to return was materially lessened ; but this feeling
wore away, and I came again to look eagerly forward to
the time when with the gold in my hand I could go back
and pay the heavy debt I owe you."
204: ANNA.
f{ Did you never hear directly from Anna ? " Richard
asked, remembering the letter sent to California.
" Yes, once ; and it made me for a time almost as mad
as my darling. I was up in the mountains when I read
it, and the livelong night I lay upon the ground, crying
as men are not apt to cry. I have that letter now. It is
in, my wallet. Would you like to see it ? "
A moment after Dr. West held in his hand a worn,
yellow paper, on which were traced the last words ever
written by the unfortunate Anna, words which made tho
doctor s chest heave with anguish as he read them, while
his mother sobbed hysterically. A part of this letter we
transcribe for the reader :
* * * "I am in a mad-house, darling, where are
so many, many crazy people, and they say that I am crazy
too. It s only the secret iu my head and heart which
makes them burn so cruelly. Richard and mother
brought me here. Poor Richard looks so white and
sorry, and speaks so kindly of you, wondering where you
are, that once I bit my tongue until it bled, to keep from
telling what I knew. If I had not promised with my
Hand upon the Bible, I am sure I should tell, but that
oath, haunts me day and night, and I dare not break it,
so now I never talk, and I was glad when they brought
me here, for it was safer so. It was dreadful at first, and
sometimes I most wished I could die, but God is here
just as lie is in Morrisville, and at last I prayed to Iliin
ANNA. 205
as I used to do. You see I forgot to pray for a while, it
was so terrible, and I thought I was lost forever, but I ve
found God again, and I don t mind the dreadful place.
Everybody is kind to me, everybody says poor girl, and
you need not worry because I am here. I pray for you
every minute, and God will hear and save you, because
lie has promised, and God never lies. Dear, darling
Robert, if I dared tell you something, it might perhaps
bring you home to spare me from the shame which is
surely coining, unless I tell, and that I ve sworn not to
do. It makes me blush to write it, and so I guess I ,
won t ; but just imagine, if I was your wife before all the
world, and we were living somewhere alone, and Richard
did not love me, as I know he does, and folks called mo
Mrs. West instead of poor Anna, and you always hurried
home at night to see me, wouldn t it be nice if we had a
little baby between us to love, you because it was Anna s,
and I because it was Robert s ! But now, O llobert,
what shall I do, with you away, and that Bible oath in
my heart. God will help me, I hope, and perhaps take
me home to him, where they know I am innocent. Poor
Richard, I pity him most when he comes to know it, but
God will care for him, and when I am gone he will find
some other one more worthy than I for him to love;
" There came a young girl here yesterday, not to stay,
for her brains all were sound, but with some more to look
at us, and as they reached my door I heard the attendant
206 AXNA.
whisper something of me, while the stranger came up to
me and said :
" Poor girl, does your head ache very hard ? and she
put her hand so gently on my hair ; but I would not look
up, and she went on with her companion, who called her
Dora. I don t know why her voice made me think of
Richard, but it did, it was so soft and pitiful, just like
his when he speaks to me. It made me cry, and I prayed
carefully to myself, God send to Kichard another love,
with a voice and manner like Dora. "
Richard could read no farther, but dropping the let
ter upon the bed, he buried his face in his hands and
moaned :
" Darling Anna, your prayer will never be answered,
but I thank you for it all the same, and I am so glad
that I never forsook nor quite lost faith in you. O
Anna ! O Dora ! Dora ! "
. The last name was wrung from him inadvertently,
but Robert caught it up and said :
" Was the Dora who was with you at Robin s grave
the same of whom Anna speaks ? "
" I think so, yes, I am sure, for she once told me of a
visit made to the asylum, and related an incident similar
to this which Anna mentions."
" Then Dick," and Robert spoke reverently but de
cidedly, " then she will be yours. Anna prayed for it
once, and I have implicit faith in Anna s prayers. They
ANNA. 207
followed me over land and sea, bringing me at last to the
fountain of all peace."
Richard made no reply to this, but asked reproachfully
why his brother did not hasten home after receiving that
touching message from Anna.
" The letter was a long time coming," Robert said.
"And as I was not expecting it, I never inquired at the
post-office until I saw it advertised. It was then the
first of September, and Anna was already dead, but this
I did not know, and I was making up my mind to bravo
even a prison for her sake, when I saw that paper which
told me of her death. The rest you know, except, in
deed, the debt of gratitude I owe to you and mother for
all your kindness to my wife and boy, and for the love
with which you have ever cherished me. If I get well, I
trust my life will show that a wretch like me can reform.
I havo money enough to pay the debt with interest, and,
Richard, it is all yours, earned for you, and hoarded as
carefully as miser ever hoarded his gains. But now tell
mo of Anna at the last. Did no one suspect she was my
wife ? "
" No one but myself, and I did not till she was dying,"
Richard replied. " No one dreamed of questioning her
of you, and so she was spared that pain."
And then he told Robert the sad story which our
readers already know, the story of Anna s death, of
Robin s birth, and his short life, while Robert, listening
208 ANNA.
to it, atoned for all the wrong by the anguish he ondured
and the tears he shed, as the narrative proceeded. At
.last, when it was finished, he sank back upon his pillow,
wholly exhausted with excitement and fatigue.
For weeks after that he hovered so near the verge of
death that even the mother despaired, and looked each
day to see the life go out from her child, who in his boy
hood had never been so dear to her as now. But youtlx
and a strong constitution triumphed, and again the fever
abated, leaving the sick man as weak and helpless as a
child, but anxious for the day when he would be able to
make the homeward voyage.
CHAPTER XX.
KI CHARD.
O absorbed was Mrs. West in Robert that she
seldom noticed Richard, and so she paid no heed
when he one day came into the sick-room, look
ing whiter even than his brother, by whose side he sat
down as usual, doing for him the many offices he had
been accustomed to perform, and except for his suffering
face, giving no token of the terrible pain which wrung
his heart when he that morning read in Jessie s letter that
the worst he had feared was true, and that Dora was to
be married in September.
"Fora person just engaged she acts very strangely,"
Jessie wrote, tl and Bell will insist that she does not love
her future lord, but is marrying him from some mistaken
sense of duty. What do you think ? "
Dr. West could not tell what he thought, he only knew
that his brain grew giddy, and his soul faint and sick as
he realized that Dora was lost to him forever. Never
even when Anna died had he suffei-ed so keen a pang as
now, when in the solitude of his chamber he tried to pray,
while the words he would utter died away in unmeaning
210 RICHARD.
sounds. But God, who readeth tlie inmost secrets of the
heart, knew what his poor sorrowing child would ask, and
the needed strength to bear was given all the same.
It was very tedious now, waiting in that sick-room, for
there crept into Richard s mind the half conviction that
if he would see Dora for only one brief moment, he could
save her from the sacrifice. But Robert s improvement
was slow, and day after day went by, until at last there
came a morning when there was put into Richard s hand
a soiled, worn-looking letter, whose superscription made
his heart for an instant stop its beatings, for he recognized
Dora s handwriting, and involuntarily pressed the missive
to his lips ere he broke the seal. It had been weeks and
weeks upon the road, lying for a long time in another
office, but it had come to him at last ; he had torn the
envelope open ; he was reading Dora s cry for help, written
T?o long ago, a cry to which he gave a far different inter
pretation from what she had intended.
" Oh, why did I not speak to her again I " he exclaimed ;
" why was I permitted to form so wrong an estimate of
woman s character ? But it is not yet too late. The
wedding is to be the 15th of September, Jessie wrote.
A steamer sails from here in a few days, and Robert
must be able by that time to leave California, or if he is
not I shall leave him behind with mother and fly to
Dora. Oh if I could go to-day ! "
; An hour later, and Robert knew all there was to know
EICHARD. 211
of Dora as conne !;ted with his brother, and warmly ap
proved the plan of sailing in. the Raritan. I shall grow
stronger on the sea, he said, and the result proved that
he was right, for when at last the Raritaa was loosened
from her moorings and gliding swiftly over the blue
waters of the Pacific, he lay on her deck, drinking in new
strength and vigor with each freshening breeze. But
with Richard ib was different. Now that they were
really off, and Robert needed comparatively little of his
help, he sank beneath the load of anxiety and excitement,
and taking to his berth, scarcely lifted his head from the
pillow while the ship went gliding on towards home and
Dora Freeman.
CHARTER XXI.
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
|EVER had a summer passed so slowly to Dora
Freeman as had the last, and yet now that it
was gone, it seemed to her scarcely more than a
week since the night she had said words from which re
sulted all the busy preparations going on around her : the
bridal dresses packed away in heavy travelling trunks, for
they were going to Europe too, the perfect happiness of
Johnnie, who, twenty times each day, kissed her ten
derly, whispering, " I am so glad that you are to be my
mother " the noisy demonstrations of the younger ones,
and the great joy which beamed all over the Squire s hon
est face each time he looked at his bride-elect and thought
how soon she would be his. Gradually the pressure
about Dora s heart and brain had loosened, and she did
not feel just as she had done when she first promised to
be Squire Russell s wife. She had accustomed herself
to the idea, until each thought did not bring a throb of
pain, while the excitement of getting ready, and the an
ticipated tour to places she had never expected to see,
Lad afforded her some little satisfaction. She knew that
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING. 213
the world generally looked at her in wonder, while Bell
and Mattie totally disapproved, both framing some ex
cuse for not being present at the wedding. But as is
usually the case opposition only helped the matter by
making her mage determined to do what she really be
lieved to be her duty. Besides this she was strengthened
and upheld by Johnnie, who was to be the companion of
her travels, and who always came between her and every
sharp, rough point, smoothing the latter down and mak
ing all so bright and easy that she blessed him as her
good angel. Owing to his constant vigilance, his father
was not often very demonstrative of his affection, except
by looks and deeds done for her gratification, but still there
were times when, Johnnie being off guard, the father
acted the fond lover to the pale, shrinking girl, who, shut
ting her teeth firmly together, Buffered his caresses be
cause she must, but gave him back no answering token of
affection. Sometimes this quiet coldness troubled him,
particularly as Letitia and Jimmie both asked him at
different times why Auntie cried so much, tc did every
body just before they were married ? Did mother ? "
After Jessie came, Dora felt a great deal better, for
Jessie made the future anything but gloomy. Jessie waf
bike a brilliant diamond, flashing and sparkling, and singing
and dancing and whistling until the house seemed like
a different place, and even Squire Russell wished ho
could keep her there forever.
214 THE NIOUT BEFORE THE WEDDING.
And now it was the day before the bridal. Every
trunk was packed, and everything was ready for the cer
emony, which was to occur at an early hour in the morn
ing, as the bridal pair were to take the first train for
New York. Jessie upon the grassy lawn was romping
with the children, and occasionally addressing some saucy,
teasing remark to the bridegroom-elect, who was smoking
his cigar demurely beneath the trees, and wishing Dora
would join them. But Dora was differently employed.
With the quiet which had suddenly fallen upon the house
hold, a terrible reaction had come to her, and as if waking
from some horrid nightmare, she began to realize her pos
ition, to feel that only a few hours lay between herself
and a living death. Vaguely, too, she began to see how,
with every morning mail, there had come a shadowy hope
that something might be received from Dr. West, that in
some way he would yet save her from Squire Russell.
But for months no news had been received of him by any
one, and now the last lingering hope had died, leaving
only a feeling of despair. She could not even write a
line in her journal, and once she thought to burn it, but
something stayed the act, and mid a rain of tears, she
laid it away, resolving never to open its lids again until
her heart ached less than it was aching now.
" I shall get over it, I know," she moaned, as she
seated herself by the window. " If I thought I should
not, I would go to Squire Russell before the whole world,
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING. 215
and on my knees would beg to be released ; but I am tired
now, and excited, and everything looks so dark, even
my pleasant chamber is so close that I can scarcely
breathe. I wonder if the breeze from the lake would not
revive me. I ll try it, I ll go there. I ll sit where
Richard and I once sat. I ll listen to the music of the
waves just as I listened then, and if this does not quiet
me, if the horror is still with me, perhaps "
There was a hard, terrible look in Dora s eyes as the
evil thought first flashed upon her, a look which grew
more and more desperate as she began to wonder how
deep the waters were near the shore, and if the verdict
would be <f accidental drowning, " and if Dr. West would
care.
Alas for Dora ! the tempter was whispering horrible
things to her, and she, poor, half-crazed girl, was listening to
him as she stole from the back door, and took her way across
the fields to where the waters of the lake lay sparkling in
the September sun now low in the western horizon.
CHAPTER XXII.
DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
JHE shadowy woods which skirt the lake shore
tell no tales of what they see, neither do the
mossy rocks, nor yet the plashing waves kissing
the pebbly beach, and so Dora was free to pour out her
griefs, knowing there was no listening human ear, and
forgetting for a time that there was an eye which kept
watch over her, as with her face upon the yielding
sand she moaned so piteously. She could not sit where
she and Richard sat, and so she chose the project
ing trunk of a fallen tree, and sat where her feet could
touch the water below if she should wish it so, as once
she did, dipping the tip of her thin slipper, and holding
it there till it was wet through to see what the feeling
was !
Dora did not try to pray. She never thought of that,
but only remembered how desolate, how miserable she
was, vainly imagining that to rest beneath tho waters
lying so calmly at her feet was to end all the pain, the
misery, and woe.
The sun was going down the west now very fast, and
DOWN B7 THE LAKE SHORE. 217
out upon the bosom of the lake, at some distance from
the shore, it cast a gleam like burnished gold, and Dora,
gazing wistfully upon it, fancied that if she could but
reach that spot, and sink into that golden glory, it would
be well with her. No thoughts of the hereafter crossed
her disordered mind, and so she sat and watched the
shining spot, until there came to her a memory of the
night when Robin died, and the time when the sunshine
round Anna s picture looked like the bed of fire upon
the lake.
"They are in heaven," she said; adding mournfully,
" and where is that heaven ? "
" Not where they go who take their lives in their own
hands," seemed whispered in her ear, and with a shudder
she woke to the great peril of her position.
" Save me, O God ! " she sobbed, as she moved cau
tiously back from her seat upon the tree, breathing freer
when she knew that beneath her there was no dark, cold
water into which she could dip her feet at pleasure.
She had dipped them tli3re until both hose and slip
pers were dripping wet, but this she did not heed, and
once off from the tree, she sat down where Richard sat,
and tried to look the present calmly in the face, to see if
there were not some bright, happy spots, if she would but
accept them. With her head bowed down, she did not
hear the footstep coming through the woods, and draw
ing near to her ; but when a strange voice said interroga-
10
218 DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
tively, " Miss Freeman ? " she started and uttered a ner
vous cry, for the face she saw was the face of a stranger.
And yet it was so like to Dr. "West, that she looked
again to reassure herself.
" I am Robert West," the man began, abruptly. " I
am Richard s brother. He sent me here, he sent me to
his Dora, and you are she."
For an instant a tumultuous throb of joy shot through
Dora s heart, but it quickly passed, as she answered
Robert :
" You are mistaken, sir. I am to be Squire Russell s
wife to-morrow."
Sitting down beside her, Robert repeated rapidly a
part of what the reader already knows, telling her of
Anna, of his own sin, and exonerating Richard from all
blame. Then he told her of the meeting in California,
of his long illness, of Richard s anguish when he heard
that she was to be married, of the reaction when that
letter so long in coming was received, of his haste to
embark for home, and his illness during the voyage,
illness which made him so weak that he was brought
from New York on pillows, and partly in his brother s
arms.
" But he has reached here in safety," Robert con
tinued. " He arrived perhaps an hour ago. He is at
his old boarding-place, Miss Markham s, and mother is
there with him. He knows you are not married yet, and
DOWN B 7 THE LAKE SHORE. 219
would have come to you himself, but for his illness,
which made it impossible, and so he sent me to say that
even as he loves you, so he believes that you love him,
and to beg of you not to sacrifice your happiness to a
mistaken sense of duty. You could not be found when
T inquired for you, but a servant said she saw you going
towards the lake, and as she pointed me the way, I came
on until I found you. Miss Freeman, you know my
brother, and know that there lives no better, more up
right man, or one who will make you happier as your
husband. You have heard my errand, and now what
word shall I take back to Richard, or will you go your
self and see him ? "
Dora had sat like one stunned as Robert told his
story ; hope, joy, and despair alternately succeeding each
other in her heart as she listened. At a glance, too, she
took in all the difficulties of her position, and saw how
impossible it was for her to overcome them. This was
in her mind when Robert asked if she would go to Rich
ard, and with a bitter moan she answered :
" No, no ; oh no ! he has come too late. I cannot
break my word to John, and he trusting me so fully.
Tell Richard it might have been, but cannot be now."
Again Robert West pleaded for his brother, and for
the poor heart-broken girl beside him, but her answer
was just the same :
" It might have been, but cannot be now."
220 DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
At last as it grew darker around them, and the night
dew made Dora shiver, Robert gave up the contest, and
said:
" You must go home, Miss Freeman. It is impru
dent to stay here longer in the damp night air. I am
satisfied that you do not know what you are saying, and
so I shall see Squire Russell, and acquaint him with tho
whole."
In an instant Dora was on her knees, begging that her
betrothed might be spared this pain.
" Think of the sorrow, the disappointment, the dis
grace, for to-morrow morning early is the wedding, and
everybody knows. Why, our passage to Europe is se
cured, and we must go."
" Not if I have the power to prevent it," was Robert s
reply, as he led her across the fields, still insisting that
he should see Squire Russell.
At last, when she saw how much in earnest he was, she
said, " I will tell him myself ; I can do it more gently,
and it will not hurt so much. Don t go to him, but
leave it with me."
" Y/ill you tell him all and ask to be released ? " Rob
ert said, making her stand still while she replied, " I ll
tell him all, how I love Richard best ; but I shall not ask
to be released."
Robert was satisfied, for from what he had heard of
DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE. 221
Squire Russell lie believed he would never require of
Dora so great a sacrifice.
" I shall be here with the early dawn," he said, as he
left her at the gate.
Dora did not reply, but stood with her eyes riveted
upon the house across the street, where she knew was
Dr. West. There was a light shining from the windows
of the upper room, while the figure of a woman wearing
a widow s cap was occasionally seen passing to and fro.
" That is Richard s room," she whispered, feeling an
intense desire to fly at once to his side and assert her
right to stay there.
Then, remembering her promise to Robert, she walked
slowly to the house, meeting in the door with Johnnie,
who, wild with excitement, exclaimed, " Hurrah, guess
who has come ! Dr. West, and I have been in to see
him. He s whiter than a ghost, and what is funny, his
chin fairly shook when I told him I was to have a new
mother to-morrow, and what do you think, that woman,
his mother, put me out of the room and said too much
talking hurt him. Did you know he was here ? "
" Yes, I knew, Johnnie; where s your father ? " Dora
asked, feeling that if she waited longer her courage would
give way.
" Father s in the library, and he s ordered us young
sters to keep out. I guess he s expecting you, for he
asked lots of times where you was, and nobody knew,
222 DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE.
Jessie s over there," and Johnnie jerked his shoulder in
the direction of the doctor s window.
Very slowly, as if going to her grave, Dora walked on
till she came to the library door. It was shut, and as
she stood there trembling, she caught the sound of a voice
praying within, a voice which trembled with happiness
and gratitude as John Russell thanked the God who had
given to him Dora.
" I can t ; oh, I can t," Dora sighed, as, faint and
sick, she leaned against the wall, while that prayer pro
ceeded.
Then, when it was finished, still feeling that she could
not talk with him that night, she went up to her room,
and in the garments all damp and stained with night dew,
and the slippers wet with the waters of the lake, she sat
down by the open window and watched the light across
the way, until she heard Jessie coming and knew that
Robert was with her. They were talking, too, of her,
for she heard her name coupled with Dr. West s, while
Jessie said, " It s dreadful, and I do so pity Squire Rus
sell, he is such a nice, good man."
And Jessie did pity him and Dora, too, hardly know
ing what was best, or what sne ought to advise. She
had been present when Robert returned from his inter
view with Dora, and as Richard could not wait till she
was gone she came to know the whole, expressing great
surprise, and wounding Richard cruelly by saying, " It
DOWN BY THE LAKE SHORE. 223
has gone so far that I do not believe it can be pre
vented."
But Robert thought differently, and repeated Dora s
promise to talk with Squire Russell that night.
" Then he will give her up," Jessie exclaimed, " he is
so generous and so wholly unselfish. Oh, how I do pity
him ! " and in the heat of her great pity Jessie would al
most have been Dora s substitute, if by that means she
could have saved the Squire from pain.
She did admire and like him, and appreciated his kind,
affable, pleasant ways, all the more because they were so
exactly the opposite of her father s quick, brusque, ner
vous manner. The door of the library was open now,
and she saw him sitting there as she passed, and longed
so much to go and comfort him if the blow had fallen, or
prepare him for it if it had not. I ll see Dora first, she
thought, and she hastened up to Dora s door, but it was
locked, while to her whispered question, " Have you told
him yet ? " Dora answered, " No, no, not yet ; I can t
to-night. Please leave me, Jessie ; I want to be alone."
It was the queerest thing she ever heard of, Jessie
thought, as she turned away, queerer than a novel ten
times over. Then, as she spied Johnnie in the parlor,
the little meddlesome lady felt a great desire to see if he
suspected anything ; but Johnnie did not, and only
talked of Europe and the grand things he should sec.
Not a hint or insinuation, however broad, would he take,
224 DOWN D7 TUE LAltE SHORE.
and mentally styling him stupid and dull, Jessie left him
in disgust, and walked boldly into the library, apologiz
ing for her call by saying she had been to see Dr. West,
and thought the Squire might wish to hear directly from
him. The Squire was very glad to hear, and glad also to
see Jessie, who amused and interested him.
<l I have been thinking of calling myself, with Dora,
but have not seen her this evening. Where is she ? " he
said.
" Locked in her room," Jessie replied, as she took the
chair he offered her, and continued : " Dora acts queerly,
but I suppose that is the way I shall do the night before
[ am married. Wouldn t I feel so funny, though ! Do
you know you and Dora seem to me just like a novel, in
which I am a side character; but to keep up the ro
mance some tall, handsome knight ought at the last
minute to appear and carry her off."
" And so make a tragedy so far as I am concerned,"
the Squire said, playfully, as he smoothed the little black
curly head moving so restlessly.
" Oh, I guess you would not die," Jessie replied; <c not
if Dora loved the knight the best. You would rather
she should have him, and some time you would find an
other Dora who loved you best of all."
Jessie was growing very earnest, very sympathetic,
very sorry for the unsuspecting bridegroom, and as his
hand still continued to smooth her curls, she suddenly
DO WN BY THE LAKE SHORE. 225
cauglit it between her own, and giving it a squeeze
darted from the room, leaving the Squire to wonder at
her manner, and to style her mentally " a nice little girl,
whom it would not be hard for any man to love."
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE BRIDAL DAY.
| HE morning was breaking in the east, a bright,
rosy morning, such as is usual in early Septem
ber, a morning when the birds sang as gayly
among the trees as in the summer-time, and when the
dew-drops glittered on the flowers just as they had done
in the mornings of the past. All night the gas had
burned dimly in the sick-room across the street, and all
the night the sick man had prayed that he might be pre
pared for what the future had in store, whether of joy
or sorrow. All night Jessie and Johnnie had slept un
easily, dreaming, one of the Roman Forum, where he
repeated the speech made at his last exhibition, and the
other that she, instead of Dora, wore the bridal wreath
and stood at John Russell s side, and found it not so
very terrible after all. All night Squire Russell had lain
awake, with a strange, half sad, half delicious feeling of
unrest, which drove slumber from his pillow, but brought
no shadow of the storm gathering round his head. All
night, too, Dora, but over the scene of agony, contrition,
remorse, terror, hope, and despair whict her chamber
THE BRIDAL DAT. 227
witnessed, we draw a veil, and speak only of the re
sults.
With the dawn the household was astir, for the elabo
rate breakfast was to be served before the ceremony,
which was to take place at half past seven. In the chil
dren s room there was first the opening of sleepy little
eyes, as Clem called out, " Come, come, wake up. This
is your father s wedding-day." Then there was a scam
pering across the floor, a patter of tiny feet, a chorus of
birdlike voices, mingled occasionally with wrathful e-
clamations as Ben s antagonistic propensities clashed
with those of Burt, who declared that " Aunt Dora was
going to be father s mother, too, as well as theirs."
Then there were louder tones, and finally a fight, which
was quelled by Jessie, who appeared in dressing-gown,
with her brush in hand, and seemed in no hurry to finish
a toilet which she intuitively felt would be made for
naught.
Across the yard came Squire John from visiting Mar
garet s grave, where he had left a tear and a bouquet of
flowers. Up the walk, from the front gate, came Robert
West, a look of determination on his handsome face,
which boded no good to the bridegroom-elect, who, guess
ing at once that he was the doctor s brother, greeted him
cordially and bade him sit down till the breakfast was
announced. Up the same gravel walk came the woman
who was to dress the bride, and just as Robert West wag
228 THE BRIDAL DAY.
stammering some apology for being there unbidden, sho
asked if Miss Freeman had come down.
Nobody had seen her yet ; nobody had heard her
either, though Jessie had been three times to her door,
while Clem had been once, but neither could get an
answer.
" Would she be apt to sleep so soundly on this morn
ing ? " Squire John asked, just as Jessie, who had again
tried the door, came running to the head of the stairs,
her brush in her hands, and her dressing-gown flying
back as she breathlessly explained to the anxious group
in the hall below how she was positive she had heard a
moan as if Dora was in distress.
" Burst the door," the Squire ordered, his face white
as ashes, as he hurried up the stairs, followed by Robert
West.
Yes, there was a moan, a faint, wailing sound, which
met the ears of all, and half crazy with fear Sqviire
John pressed heavily against the bolted door until it
gave way, when he stood modestly back while Jessie,
stooping under his arm, darted into the room, exclaim
ing:
"Dora, O DoraJ what s the matter? What makes
her so sick ? " and she cast an appealing glance at her
companions, who stood appalled at the change a few
hours bad wrought in Dora, the bride of that morning.
In her soiled garments, damp and wet, she had sat or
THE BRIDAL DAT. 229
lain the entire night, but the burning fever had dried
them and stained her face with a purplish red, while her
eyes, bloodshot and heavy, had in them no i*ay of intelli
gence. She was lying now upon the bed, her hands
pressed to her forehead, as if the pain was there, while
she moaned faintly, and occasionally talked of the light
on the wall which had troubled her so much.
" It would not go out," she said to Jessie, who gently
lifted up the aching head and held it against her bosom.
" It was there all the night, and I know it burned for
him. Does he know how sick I am? "
A glance of intelligence passed between Robert West
and Jessie, for they knew that the light from Richard s
room had shone into Dora s through the darkness, and
this it was which troubled her. Squire John had no
such suspicions, and when she asked, " Does he know how
sick I am ? " he bent over her tenderly, and smoothing
her brown hair, said, " Poor child, poor darling, I do
know, and I am so sorry. Is the pain very hard ? "
At the sound of his voice Dora started, while there
came into her face a rational expression, and as he con
tinued to caress her, her lip quivered, her eyes filled with
tears, and she said, pleadingly, as a child would beg for
giveness of an injured parent:
"Dear John, don t be angry, I ^ould Lot help it. I
tried to come to you last night when everybody was
asleep and the clock was striking twelve. I tried to
230 THE BRIDAL DAT.
come, but I dould not find the way for the light on the
wall. I can t, I can t. The trunks are all packed too,
and the people are coming. Tell them I can t."
" Poor little girl, never mind. I know you can t, and
it don t make one bit of difference, for I can wait, and
I will tell the folks how sick my Dora is," John said,
kissing her softly. Then in an aside to Jessie, he added,
" She thinks I ll be disappointed because the wedding is
deferred, and it troubles her. There s the door-bell now.
I must go down to explain," and he hurried away to
meet the guests, who were arriving rapidly, and who,
as they turned their steps homeward, seemed more dis
appointed than the bridegroom himself.
Blessed Squire John ! He was wholly unselfish, and as
in his handsome wedding-suit he stood bowing out his de
parting guests, he was not thinking of himself, but of
Dora and how she might be served.
Margaret believed fully in homoeopathy," he said to
the last lady, who asked what doctor he would call ; " but
Dr. West is sick, and what can I do ? "
" He might prescribe," returned the lady, who was also
one of Dr. West s adherents. " You can tell him her
symptoms, and he can order medicine."
" Thank you ; I never thought of that. I ll go at once,"
John said ; and bareheaded as he was, he crossed the
street, and was soon knocking at Mrs. Markham s door.
" The doctor s worse," she said, in reply to his inquiry.
THE BRIDAL DAT. 231
" He seems terribly excited, and acts as if lie was pos
sessed."
" But I must see him," Squire John continued. " Miss
Freeman is very sick, and he must prescribe."
" Ain t there no wedding after all ? Wall, if that don t
beat me ! " was Mrs. Markham s response, as she carried
to Dr. West the message which roused him from the
hopeless, despairing mood into which he had fallen.
He had insisted upon sitting up by the window, where
he could watch the proceedings across the street, and as
Robert did not return, while one after another the invited
guests went up the walk into the house, he gave up all as
lost, and sick with the crushing belief, went back to his
bed, whispering sadly :
" Dora is not for me. Bat God knows best ! "
He did not see the bridegroom coming to his door, but
when the message was delivered it diffused new life at
once.
" Yes, showhim up ; I must talk with him," he said, and
a moment after Squire John stood before his rival, his hon
est face full of anxiety, and almost bedewed with tears as
he stated all he knew of Dora s case. " If I could see her
V I coxvkl do so much better," Richard said ; "but that is
impossible to-day, so I must send," and with hands which
shook as they had never; shaken before, he gave out the
medicine which he hoped might save Dora s life.
" If you were able to go," the Squire said, as he stood
232 THE BRIDAL DAT.
in the doorway, " I would carry you myself; but per
haps it is not prudent."
He looked anxiously at the doctor, who replied :
" If she gets no better, I ll come."
And then as the door closed upon the Squire, he gave a
great pitying groan as he thought how trustful and un
suspicious he was.
Holding fast to the medicine, and repeating the direc
tion, Squire Russell hastened back to the house, finding
that Dora had been divested of her soiled garments, and
placed in bed, where she already seemed more comfortable,
though she kept talking incessantly of the light on the
wall which would not let her sleep.
" It s perfectly dreadful, isn t it ? " Jessie said to Rob
ert, who, ere going home, stepped to the door of Dora s
room. " I m sure I don t know what to do. I wish Bell
was here."
Dora heard the name, and said :
" Yes, Bell ; she knows, she understands, she said I
ought not to do it. Send for Bell."
Accordingly Robert was furnished with the necessary
directions, and left the house for the telegraph office, just
as the Squire entered.
Johnnie was nearly frantic. At first he had seemed
to consider that his trip to Europe was prevented, and,
boy -like, only was greatly disappointed ; but when he was
admitted into the room and saw Dora s burning cheeks and
THE BRIDAL DAY. 233
bright, rolling eyes, lie forgot everything in Iris great dis
tress for her.
" Auntie must not die ! Oh, she must not die ! " h"
sobbed, feeling a keener pang than any he had known
when they brought home his dead mother. Intuitively
he seemed to feel that his father s grief was greater than
his own, and keeping close to his side he held his
nand, looking up into his face, and whispering occasion
ally:
" Poor father, I hope she won t die ! "
The father hoped so too, but as the hours wore on and
the fever increased, those who saw her, shook their heads
doubtingly, saying with one accord :
" She must have help soon, or it will come too
late."
" Help from vhere ? Tell me. Whom shall I get ?
Where shall I go ? " John asked, and the answer was
always the same. e< if Dr. West could come, but I sup
pose he can t ! "
" He can ! he shall ! I " Johnnie exclaimed, as the house
seemed filled with Dora s delirious ravings. " Father and
that Mr. West can bring him in a chair ! He shall ! "
and Johnnie rushed across the street, nearly upsetting Mrs.
West in his headlong haste, and bursting upon Richard
with the exclamation, "SIT 11 die ! she is dying, and you
shall go ! You must, you will ! We ll take you in this
big chair ! " and Johnnie wound his arm around the doc-
234 THE BRIDAL DAT.
tor s neck, while he begged of him to go and save Auut
Dora.
At first the doctor hesitated, but when his brother also
joined in the boy s request, he said, "I ll go."
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
T "was a novel sight to see the little procession
which half an hour later left Mrs. Markham s
house and moved across the street. Wrapped
in a blanket and reclining in the huge arm-chair which
Squire John, his coachman, and Robert West were carry
ing was Dr. West, while behind him walked his mother,
with Johnnie and Jim and Burt and Ben bringing up the
rear.
" I think I had better go in alone. Too many may
disturb her," Richard suggested, as, supported by his
brother and the Squire, he reached the upper hall and
turned towards Dora s chamber.
All saw the propriety of this, and so only Jessie was
present when Richard first sat down by Dora s side, and
taking her hot hand pressed it between his own, calling
her by name and asking if she knew him.
" Yes, Richard, and you have come to save me ; I am so
glad, and the night was~"~o long, with the light on the
wall," Dora replied, and over her cheeks the tears fell re
freshingly.
" You ha^e done her good already," Jessie whispered
236 THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
to the doctor, who, repressing his intense desire to hug
the sick girl to his bosom, proceeded carefully to examine
every symptom and then to prescribe.
She was very sick, he said, and the utmost quiet was
necessary ; only a few must be allowed to see her, and no
one should be admitted whose presence disturbed her in
the least. This was virtually keeping Squire Russell
away, for his presence did disturb her, as had been appar
ent all the day, for she grew restless and talkative and
feverish the moment he appeared. It smote the doctor
cruelly to see how meekly he received the order.
" Save her, doctor," he said, " save my Dora and I will
not mind giving you all I m worth."
But the power to save was not vested in Dr. West.
He could only use the means, and then with agony of
soul pray that they might be blessed, that Dora might
live even though she should never be his. It was un
necessary for him to return to Mrs. Markham s, and
yielding to what seemed best for all, he remained at
Squire Russell s during the dreadful days of suspense
when Dora s life hung on a thread, when Bell and Mat-
tie, both of whom came in answer to Robert s telegram,
bent over her pillow, always turning away with the feel
ing that she must die, when Jessie, yielding her place as
nurse to more experienced hands, took the children to
the farthest part of the building, where she kept them
quiet, stifling her tears while she sang to them childish
THE SHADOWS OF DEATH. 237
songs, or told them fairy stories ; and when Squire Rus
sell, banished from the sick-room, sat in the hall all the
day long watching Dora s door with a wistful, beseeching
look, which touched the hearts of those who saw it, and
who knew of the blow in store for him even if Dora lived.
It was no secret now, to five at least, that Dora could
never be Squire Russell s wife. Mrs. West, Bell, Mat-
tie, Jessie, and Robert all knew it, and while four ap
proved most heartily, Jessie in her great pity hardly
knew what she should advise. She was so sorry for him
sitting so patiently by the hall window, and she wanted
so much to comfort him. Sometimes, as she passed near
him, she did stop, and smoothing his hair, tell him how
sorry she was, while beneath the touch of those snowy
fingers, his heart throbbed with a feeling which prompted
him to think much of Jessie, even while he kept that
tireless watch near Dora.
It was s.range how the doctor bore up, appearing bet
ter than when he first came to Dora. It was excitement,
he knew, and he was glad of the artificial strength which
kept him at her side, noting every change with minute
ness which went far toward effecting the cure for which
he prayed.
Two weeks had passed away, and then one night, just
as the autumn twilight was stealing into the room, Dora
woke from a long, heavy sleep, which Richard had
watched breathlessly, for on its issue hung her life or
238 THE SHADOWS OF DEATH.
death. It was over now, and the hand Richard held was
wet with perspiration. Dora was saved, and burying his
head upon her pillow, the doctor said aloud :
" I thank thee, O my Father, for giving me back my
darling."
Richard was alone, for Bell and Mattie had both left
the room to take their supper, and there was no one
present to see the look of unutterable joy which crept in
to his face, when, in response to his thanksgiving, a faint
voice said:
" Kiss me once, Richard, for the sake of what might
have been, then let me die, here, just as I am, alone
with you."
He kissed her more than once, more than twice, while
he said to her:
" You will not die ; the crisis is past ; my darling
will live."
Neither thought of Squire Russell then, so full, so per
fect was that moment of bliss in which each acknowledged
the deep love filling their hearts with joy. Dora was the
first to remember, and with a moan she turned her face
to the wall while the doctor still held and caressed the
little wasted hand which did not withdraw itself from his
grasp. There was joy in the household that night, for
the glad news that Dora was better spread rapidly, while
smiles and tears of happiness took the place of sorrow.
Squire Russell was gone j business which required atten-
THE SHADOWS OF DEATH. 239
tion had taken him away for several hours, and when he
returned it was too late to visit the sick-room ; but he
heard from Johnnie that Dora would live, and from hia
room there went up a prayer of thanksgiving to Heaven,
who had not taken away one so dear as Dora.
CHAPTER XXV.
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
]OOR Squire Russell," Jessie kept repeating to
herself, as she saw him next morning going up
to Dora, who would far rather not have seen
him until some one had told him what she knew now
must be.
But there was no longer a reason why he should not be
admitted to her presence, and so he came, his kind face
bathed in tears, and glowing all over with delight as he
stooped to kiss " his lily," as he called her, asking how
she felt, and whispering to her of his joy that she was
better.
" I knew the doctor would help you," he said, rubbing
his hands complacently. " You would have died but for
him. We will always like Dr. West, Dora, for he saved
your life."
" I guess I would not talk any more now, it tires her,"
Jessie said, in a perfect tremor of distress ; and taking his
arm, she lead him away ; then, closing the door upon him,
she went back to Dora, who was weeping silently.
" It seems dreadful to deceive him any longer," Jessie
v BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT. 241
said, and as Dr. West just then came in. she appealed to
him to know if it were not a shame for that nice man to be
kept so in the dark. " If you and Dora love each other,
as I suppose you do, why, you ll have each other of course,
and Squire Russell must console himself as best he can.
For my part, I pity him," and Jessie flounced out of the
room, leaving Dr. West alone with Dora.
For a long time they talked, Dora weeping softly
while the doctor soothed and comforted, and told her of
the love cherished so many years for the little brown-
eyed girl, who now confessed how dear he was to her,
but cried mournfully when she spoke of Squire Russell.
It was cruel when he trusted and loved her so much.
Perhaps, too, it was wrong, she said. It might be her
imperative duty to take charge of those children, and
then she startled the doctor by saying :
" You know how much I love you. I am not ashamed
to confess it, but I am most afraid that when the time
comes to talk with John, I shall tell him that I will
marry him."
"Not by a^ug full! I ll tend to that myself. I
know now what has been the matter ! " was almost
screamed in the ears of Dr. West and Dora, as Johnnie
rushed into the room.
He had started to come before, he said, but had been
arrested at. the door by something Dora was saying to
the doctor.
11
242 BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
" I know it s paltry mean to listen," he continued,
" but I could not help it, and so I stood stiller than a
mouse, and heard all you had to say. That s why Aunt
Dora has looked so white and cried so much, and didn t
want father to kiss her. I understand. She didn t like
him, but she s pesky willing to have you slobber over
her as much as you want to," and the boy turned fiercely
toward the doctor. " I counted, and while I stood there
you kissed her fourteen times ! It was smack, smack,
till I was fairly sick, and sort of mad with all the rest
I know auntie always has done right, and so I s pose she
is right now, but somehow I can t help feeling as if the
governor was abused, and me too ! How, I d like to
know, am I ever going to Europe if you don t have
father ? O Auntie, think again before you quit en
tirely ! " and overmastered with tears, Johnnie buried
his face in the bed-clothes, begging of Dora " to think
again, and not give poor father tlte mitten ! "
" You are making her worse ! You had better go
out ! " the doctor said kindly, laying a hand on Johnnie s
shoulder ; but the boy sbook it off, savagely exclaiming :
" You let me be, old Dr. West. I shall stay if I have
a mind to ! " But when Dora said :
" Johnnie, Johnnie, please don t," he melted at once,
and sobbed aloud. f - .
" I was mad, Auntie ; and I guess I m mad yet, but I
do love you. O Aimtie, poor father 1 I m going right
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
off to tell him. He shan t be fooled any longer ! " and
the excited child darted from the room ere Dora had
time to stop him.
Rushing down the stairs and entering the library, he
called loudly for his father, but he was not there. He
had gone into the village, Jessie said, asking if it was
anything in particular which he wanted. " Yes, of
course. I want to tell him how it s all day with him
and Auntie. She don t like him, and she does like
Dr. West. Poor father ! was there ever anything so
mean?"
Here at last was one who in part expressed her own
sentiments, and the impulsive Jessie replied :
lt It is mean, I think, and I am so sorry for your
father. Of course Dora intends to do right, and likes
the doctor best, because he is not so old as your father ;
but young as I am, I should not think it so awful to
marry a man of forty. Why, I think it would be rather
jolly, for I could do just as I pleased with him. Yes, I
blame Dora some "
" I won t have Aunt Dora blamed," Johnnie roared, a
reaction taking place the moment any one presumed to
censure her. " No, I won t have her blamed, so you
just hush up. If she don t want father she shan t have
him, and I ll lick the first one who says she shall."
Here Johnnie broke down entirely, and with a howl
ing cry fled away into the garden, leaving Jessie pdr
244 BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
fectly amazed as she thought " how very unsatisfactory
it was to meddle with a love-affair."
Meanwhile Johnnie had seated himself beneath a tree
in a sunny, quiet spot, where he was crying bitterly, and
feeling almost as much grieved as when his mother died.
Indeed, he fancied that he felt worse, for then there was
hope in the future, and now there was none. Hearing
the sound of the gate, and thinking his father had re
turned, he rose at last, and drying his eyes, repaired to
the house, finding his conjecture true, for Squire Russell
had come, and was reading his paper in the library.
With his face all flushed with excitement, and his eyes
red with weeping, Johnnie went to him at once, and
bolting the door, began impetuously, " I would not mind
it a bit, father. I d keep a stiff upper lip, just as if I
did not care."
" What do you mean ? " the Squire asked, in surprise,
and Johnnie continued : " I mean that you and Aunt
Dora have played out, and you may as well hang up
your fiddle, for she don t want you, and she does want
Dr. West, and that s why she has grown poor as a shark
and white as chalk. I just found it out, standing by the
door and hearing the greatest lot of stuff, how he asked
her to marry him once, and she got into a tantrum and
wouldn t say yes, .though she wanted to all the time.
What makes girls act so, I wonder ? "
Squire Russell was too deeply interested to oiTor any
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT. 245
explanation with regard to girls actions, and Johnnie
went on :
" Then he went off to California, and didn t write, as
she hoped he would, and you and I asked her to have
you, and she did not want to, but thought it was her
duty, and wrote to ask the doctor, and he didn t get the
letter for weeks and weeks, and when he did he was
most distracted, and cut stick for home ; and Aunt Dora
didn t know it, and went off to the Lake, and sat with
both feet in the water, and Mr. Robert West found hex
there and told her, and got her home, and she most had
a fit, and, O thunder ! what a muss they have kicked up ! "
Here Johnnie stopped for breath, while his father
grasped the table with both hands, as if he thus would
steady himself, while he said slowly, with long breaths
between the words, " How was it my son ? Tell me
again. I I do not think I understand."
Briefly then Johnnie recapitulated, telling how he hap
pened to find it out, and adding, " Such kissing I never
heard ! Fourteen smashers, for I counted ; and don t
you know, father, how, if you even touched her hand or
her hair, she would wiggle and squirm as if it hurt her ?
Well, I peeked through the crack of the door, and instead
of wigglin she snugged up to him as if she liked it, and
I know she did, for her eyes fairly shone, they were so
bright, when she looked at him. But, father, she talked
real good about you, and said that if you insisted she
246 BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
should marry you just the same ; but you won t father,
will you?"
" No, my son, no. O Dora ! "
The words were a groan, while the Squire laid his face
upon the table. Instantly Johnnie was at his side com
forting him as well as he was able, and trying manfully
to keep down his own choking sorrow.
" Never mind, father, never mind ; we will get along,
you and I. And I ll tell you now what folks say, and
that is, that no chap has a right to marry his wife s sister,
which I guess is so. Don t cry, father, don t. Somebody
will have you, if Aunt Dora won t. There, there," and
Johnnie tried in vain to hush the grief becoming rather
demonstrative as the Squire began to realize what he had
lost.
Noisy grief is never so deep as the calm, quiet sorrow
which can find no outlet for its tears, and so Squire Rus
sell was the more sure to outlive this bitter trial ; but
that did not help him now, or make the future seem one
whit less desolate. It was an hour before Johnnie left
him, and went into the hall, where he encountered Jessie,
to whom he said, " I ve told him and he ll do the hand
some thing, but it almost kills him. Maybe you, being
a girl, can talk to him better than I," and Johnnie went
on up to Dora s chamber, while Jessie, after hesitating a
moment, glided quietly into the library, where Squire
I .ussell still sat with his head upon the table.
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT. 247
Jessie was a nice little comforter, and so the Squire
found her as she stood over him, just as she did when
Margaret died, smoothing his hair, her favorite method
of expressing sympathy, and saying to him so softly, " I
pity you, and I think you so good to give her up."
He could talk to Jessie ; and bidding her to sit down, he
asked what she knew of Dora s love-affair with the doctor,
thereby learning some things which Johnnie had not told
him.
" It is well," he said at last; " I see that Dora is not
for me ; I give her to Dr. West ; and, Miss Verner,
Jessie, I thank, you for your sympathy with both of us.
I am glad you are here."
Jessie was glad, too, for if there was anything she es
pecially enjoyed, it was the whirl and the excitement
going on around her. Bowing, she too quitted the library,
and went up to corroborate what Johnnie had already
told to Dora.
After that Squire Russell sat no more in the upper
hall watching Dora s door, but stayed downstairs with his
little children, to whom he attached himself continually,
as if he felt that he must be to them father and mother
both. Now that the crisis was past, the doctor thought
it advisable to go back to Mrs. Markham s, his boarding-
place, but he met Squire Russell first, and heard from his
own lips a confirmation of what Johnnie had said. There
was BO malice in John Russell s nature, and he treated
248 BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
the doctor as cordially and kindly as if he had r.ot been
his rival.
" God bless you both," he said ; " I blame no one,
harbor no ill-feeling towards any one. If Dora had told
me frankly at first it might have saved some pain, some
mortification, but I do not lay it up against her. She
meant for the best. It is natural she should love you
more than me. God bless her ; and doctor, if you like,
marry her at once, but don t take her away from here
yet ; wait a little till I am more settled, for the chil
dren s sake, you know."
Dr. West could not understand the feeling which
prompted Squire Russell to want Dora to stay there, but
he recognized the great unselfishness of the man whose
sunshine he had darkened, and with a trembling lip he,
too, said, " God bless you," as he grasped the hand most
cordially offered, and then hurried away. It was a week
before the Squire could command sufficient courage to
have an interview with Dora, as she had repeatedly asked
that he might do* With a faltering step he approached
her door, hesitating upon the threshold, until Jessie, com
ing suddenly upon him, said to him, cheerily, " It will
soon be over, never mind it ; go in."
So he went in, and stayed a long, long timo, but as
they were alone, no one ever knew all that had j issed be
tween them. The Squire was very white whei he came
out, but his face shone with a look of one who felt that
BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT. 249
he had done right, and after that the expression did not
change except that it gradually deepened into one of con
tent and even cheerfulness, as the days went by, and
people not only came to know that the wedding between
himself and Dora would never be, but also to approve the
arrangement, and to treat him as a hero who had achieved
a famous victory. As for Dora, Jessie and Beil found
her after the interview weeping bitterly over what she
called her own wicked selfishness and John s great gener
ous goodness in giving her up so kindly, and making her
feel while he was talking to her that it really was no mat
ter about him. He was not injured so very much, al
though he had loved her dearly. He still had his chil
dren, and with them he should be happy.
" Oh, he is the best man ! " Dora said ; " the very best
man that ever lived, and I wish he might find some suit
able wife, whom he could love better than he did me, and
who would make him happy."
" So do I ! I guess I do ! " retorted Jessie, industri
ously cutting a sheet of note-paper in little slips and scat
tering them on the floor. " I ve thought of everybody
that would be at all suitable, for I suppose he must be
married on account of the children ; but there is nobody
good enough except " and Jessie held the scissors and
paper still a moment, while she added, " except Bell. I
think she would answer nicely. She is twenty-nine, al
most that awful thirty, which no unmarried woman ever
11
250 BREAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
reaches, they say ; and I d like to be aunt to six children
tight well, only I believe I should thrash Jim and Letitia,
who, by the way, is not very bright. Did you ever
discover it, Dora ? "
Dora had sometimes thought Letitia a little dull, she
said, and then she turned to Bell to see how she fancied
the idea of being step-mother to all those dreadful chil
dren ; but Bell did not fancy it at all, as was plainly in
dicated by the haughty toss of her head as she replied
that:
" Thirty had no terrors for her, but was infinitely pref
erable to a widower with six children."
Jessie whistled, while Dora smiled softly as she caught
the sound of a well-known step upon the stairs, and knew
her physician was coming.
Bell and Jessie always left her alone with him, and
when they were gone he kissed her pale cheek, which
flushed with happiness, while her sunny eyes looked
volumes of love into the eyes meeting them so fondly.
" My daring has been crying," the doctor said.
" Will she tell me why ? "
And then came the story of her interview with John,
>vho had proved himself so noble and good.
" Yes, I know ; he came from you to me ! " the doctor
replied, and into Dora s eyes there crept a bashful,
frightened look, as she wondered if John had said to
Richard what he did to her.
UUEAK1NQ THE ENGAGEMENT. 251
He ha4 in part, viz., that ho wished matters to proceed
j ust as if he had never thought of marrying Dora j that as
soon as she was able he would like to see her the doctor s
wife, and then if there were no objections on the part of
either, he would like to have her remain at Beechwood
awhile, at least until he could make some other arrange
ment for his children.
"I told him you might," Richard said, as he im
prisoned the hand which was raised to remonstrate. " I
said I knew you would be willing to stay, and that I
should like my new boarding-place very much ; and now
nothing remains but for you to get well as fast as possi
ble, for the moment the doctor pronounces you convales
cent you are to be his wife. Do you understand ? "
He did not tell her then of the plan which was matur
ing, and for the furtherance of which Robert was sent
away, viz., the purchase of the homestead whose loss
Dora had so much deplored.
There was an opening in the town for a new physician,
the doctor had ascertained ; and though he would dislike
to leave his many friends in Beechwood, still, for Dora s
sake, he could do so, and he had sent Robert to open
negotiations with the present proprietor of the place once
owned by Colonel Freeman, and for which there was
ample means to pay in the sum brought by the prodigal
from the mines of California.
But this was a secret until something definite was
252 BAEAKING THE ENGAGEMENT.
known, and Richard willingly acceded to thp Squire s
proposition that he and Dora should remain there until
something was devised for the children.
Of this Dora was not much inclined to talk, and as
she was tired and excited, the doctor left her at last,
stopping on his way from the house to look at little
Daisy, whom Jessie held in her lap, and who seemed
feverish and sick. The doctor did not then say what he
feared, but when later in the day he came again, the
child s symptoms had developed so rapidly, that he had
no hesitancy in pronouncing it the scarlet fever, then
prevailing to an alarming extent in an adjoining town.
Squire Russell had thought his cup full to overflowing,
but in his anxiety for Daisy, he forgot his recent disap
pointment, and, as a father and mother both, nursed his
suffering child, assisted by Jessie, whose services there,
as elsewhere, were invaluable. It was indeed a house of
mourning, and for weeks a dark cloud brooded over it as
one after another, Ben and Burt, Letitia and Jim, were
prostrate with the disease which Daisy had been the
first to take, and from which she slowly recovered.
When Letitia was smitten down Jessie was filled with
remorse, for she remembered what she had said of the
quiet child, and with a sister s tenderness she nursed the
little girl, who would take her medicine from no one else
From the first Ben and Burfc were not very ill, but for a
lime it seemed doubtful which would gain the mastery,
DUE AKIN O- THE ENGAGEMENT. 253
life or death, in the cases of Letitia and Jim. With re
gard to Letitia that question was soon settled, and one
October morning Jessie put gently back upon the pillow
the child who had died in her lap, kissing her the last
of all ere she went the dark road already trodden by the
mother, who in life would have chosen anybody else than
Jessie Verner to have soothed the last moments of her
little girl.
But Jessie s work was not yet done, and while the sad
procession went on its way to the village graveyard,
where Margaret was lying, she sat by Jimmie s side fan
ning his feverish cheeks, and carefully administering the
medicines which were no longer of avail.
Two days after Jimmie, too, died in Jessie s lap, and
as she gave him into his father s arms the weeping man
blessed her silently for all she had been to him and his,
and felt how doubly desolate he should be without her.
CHAPTER XXVI.
GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
| HERE were two little graves now by Marga
ret s, and in the Louse two vacant chairs, and
two voices hushed, while Squire Russell
counted four children where he had numbered six, and
yet the unselfish man would hear of no delay to Dora s
marriage.
" Let it go on the same," he said. tl It will make me
feel better to know that there are around me some per
fectly happy ones."
And so the day was appointed, and Bell and Mattie
were summoned again from Morrisville, whither the lat
ter had gone during the children s illness. Judge Verner
was lonely with both of his daughters absent, and as of
the two he was most accustomed to Bell, he would have
been quite content with having her back again if she had
not told him how Jessie had turned nurse to Squire Rus
sell s children, and was consequently in danger of taking
the disease. This roused him, and in a characteristic
letter to Jessie he bade her " not make a fool of herself
any longer by tending children with canker-rash and feed-
GIVING IN MAREIAGE. 255
ing them with sweetened water, but to pack up her traps
and come home."
To this the saucy Jessie replied that " she should not
come home till she was ready ; that the Judge could shut
up, and what he called sweetened water was quite as
strong as the medicine which once cured his colic so
soon." Then ; in the coaxing tone the Judge could never
resist, she added, "You know I m just in fun, father,
when I talk like that, but really I must stay till after
Dora is married, and you must let me, that s a dear, good
old soul," and so the "good old soul" was cajoled into
writing that Jessie might stay, adding in postscript,
" Bell tells me you say all sorts of extravagant things
about that widower, and this is well enough as long as
they mean nothing, but for thunder s sake don t go to
offering yourself to him in a streak of pity. A nice wife
you would make for a widower with six children, -you
who don t know how to darn a pair of stockings, nor make
a bed so that the one who sleeps the back side won t roll
out of the front. Mind, now, don t be a fool."
" I wonder what put that idea into father s head,"
Jessie said, as she read the letter. " I would not have
Squire Russell, let alone offering myself to him. And I
do know how to darn socks. Any way, I can pull the
holes together, which is just as well as to put in a ball and
peek and poke and weave back and forth, and make lace-
work of it just as Bell does. It s a real old-maidish
256 GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
trick, and I won t be an old maid anyhow, if I have to
marry Squire Russell," and crushing the letter into her
pocket Jessie went dancing down the stairs, whistling
softly for fear of disturbing the sick children.
That afternoon Dora found her, with her face very red
and anxious, bending over a basket of stockings and
socks, which she was trying to darn after the method
most approved by Bell. "Clem had so much to do that
day," she said, " that she had offered to help by taking
the darning off her hands." But it was a greater task
than Jessie had anticipated, and Johnnie s aid was called
in before it was finished, the boy proving cpaite as effi
cient as the girl, and as Clem secretly thought, succeed
ing even better. This was before Letitia and Jinimie
died, and since their death the Judge had made no effort
to call her home, but suffered her to take her own course,
which she did by remaining in Beech wood, where they
would have missed her so much, and where, if she could
not darn socks neatly, she made herself generally useful
as the day for the wedding approached. It was arranged
to take place on Christmas Eve, and it was Jessie who
first suggested that the house should be trimmed even
more elaborately than the little church upon the common,
where the ceremony was to be performed. With Johnnie
as her prime minister, Jessie could accomplish almost
anything, and when their work was done, every one
joined heartily in praise of the green festoons and
GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 257
wreaths, on which were twined the scarlet berries of the
mountain ash, with here and there a blossom of purest
white, purloined from the costly flowers which Squire
Russell ordered in such profusion from the nearest hot
house. Dora took but little part in the preparations.
She was very happy, but her joy was of that quiet kind,
which made her content to be still and rest, after the
turmoil and wretchedness through which she had passed.
The doctor was with her constantly, and to Jessie, who
saw the look of perfect peace upon his face and Dora s,
they seemed the impersonation of bliss, while even Bertie
noted the change in Dora, saying to her once as she sat
with the doctor :
" You don t look now, Auntie, as you did when you was
4
married to pa."
Dora could only blush, while the doctor laughingly
tossed the little fellow upon his shoulder and carried hipp.
off to the office. If Squire Russell suffered, it was not
perceptible, and Jessie thought he had recovered wonder
fully, while Dora, too, hoped the wound had not been so
deep as even to leave a scar. He was very kind and
thoughtful, remembering everything that was needful to
be done, and treating Dora as if she had been his daugh
ter. He wished her to forget the past; wished to forget
it himself; and by the cheerful, active course he took,
he bade fair to do so. He should give the bride away,
he said, and when Mattie Randall, to whom he was a
258 Gl V IN U IN
study, asked kindly if he was sure he was equal to it, he
answered, " O yes, wholly so. I see now that Dora
would never have been happy with me. I should have
laid her by Madge in less than a year. I am glad it has
all happened as it has."
He did seem to be glad, and when, on the night of the
24th, the little bridal party stood waiting in the parlor
for the carriages which were to take them to the church,
his face was as serene and placid as if he had never hoped
to occupy the place the doctor occupied. Through much
sorrow he had been tried and purified, until now in his
heart, always unselfish and kind, there was room for the
holier, gentler feelings which only the peace of God can
give. Not in vain had he in the solitude of his chamber
writhed and groaned over the crushing pang with which
he gave Dora up, while the tears wept over his dead
children were to him a holier baptism than any received
before, washing him clean and making him a noblo-
minded Christian man. Margaret s grave had during
those autumn months witnessed many an earnest prayer
for the strength and peace which were found at last, and
were the secret of his composure. Just before the sun-
setting of Dora s bridal day, he had gone alone to the
three lonely graves and laid upon the longest the exqui
site cross of evergreen and white wax berries which Jes
sie s fingers had fashioned for this very purpose, Jessie s
brain having been the first to conceive the plan. There
GIVING IN MARRIAGE. t 259
was also a bouquet of buds for each of the smaller graves,
and Squire Russell placed them carefully upon the sod,
which he watered with his tears ; then, with a whispered
prayer, he went back across the fields to where Dora, in
her bridal dress, was waiting, but not for him. He was
not the bridegroom, and he stood aside as the doctor
bounded up the stairs, in obedience to Jessie s call that
he should come and see if ever anybody looked so sweetly
as his bride, but charging him not to touch her lest some
band, or braid, or fold, or flower should give way.
" It won t be always so," he said, standing off as Jessie
directed. " By and by she will be all my own, and then
I can hug her, so ! " and in spite of Jessie s screams, he
wound his arms around Dora s neck, giving her a most
emphatic kiss as his farewell to Dora Freeman. " When
I kiss you again you will be Dora West," he whispered,
as he drew the blushing girl s arm in his, and led her
down the stairs.
The church was crowded to its utmost capacity, and it
was with some difficulty that the colored sexton had kept
a space cleared for the bridal party, which passed slowly
up the aisle, while the soft notes of the organ floated on
the air. Then the music ceased, and only the rector s
voice was heard, uttering the solemn words, " I require
and charge you both," etc. ; but there was no need for
this appeal, there was no impediment, no feason why
these two hearts, throbbing so lovingly, should not be
260 GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
joined together, and so the rite went on, while amid the
gay throng only one heart was heavy and sad. Robert
West, leaning against a pillar, could not forget another
ceremony, where he was one of the principal actors, while
the other was Anna, beautiful Anna, over whose head
the snows of many a wintry eve had fallen, and who but
for him might have been now among the living. He had
visited her grave and Robin s, had knelt on the turf
which covered them, and sued so earnestly for pardon,
had whispered to the winds words of deepest love and
contrition, as if the injured dead could hear, and then he
had gone away to seek the man whom he had so wronged,
and who for the brother s -sake had kept his sin a secret.
Uncle Jason had forgiven him, had said that all was
right, that every trace of his error was destroyed, and
Robert had mingled fearlessly again among his fellow-
men, who, only guessing in part his guilt, and feeling in
tuitively that he had changed, received him gladly into
their midst.
Summoned by his brother s letters, he had returned to
Beechwood, and now formed one of the party, who, when
the rite was over, went back to the brightly illuminated
house, where the Christmas garlands, the box, and the
pine, and the fir were hung, and where the marriage fes
tivities proceeded rationally, quietly, save as Jessie s bird-
like voice pealed through the house, as she played off her
jokes, first upon one and then another, adroitly trying to
GIVING IN MARRIAGE. 261
coax Bell and the young clergyman, Mr. Kelly, tinder
the mistletoe bough, and then screaming with delight as
her father and Mrs. David West were the first to pass
within the charmed circle. Jessie was alive with fun
and frolic, and making Bell sit down at the piano, she
declared that somebody should dance at Dora s wedding
if she had to dance alone.
" Take Johnnie," Dora said, and the two were soon
whirling through the rooms, the boy s head coming far
above the black curls of the merry little "maiden, who
flashed, and gleamed, and sparkled among the assembled
guests till more than one heart beat faster as it caught
the influence of her exhilarating presence.
Robert West dreamed of her that night ; so did Mr.
Kelly, the rector ; and so did Squire Russell ; but the two
first forgot her again next morning, as each said good-by
to the handsome, stately Bell, a far more fitting match
for either than the black-eyed sprite who for a moment
had made their pulses quicken. But not so with the
Squire. To him the house was very desolate when he
returned to it, after having accompanied the bride, and
groom, and guests to the cars, which all took for Morris-
ville, whither they were going. It was Dora he missed,
the servants said, pitying him, he looked so sad, while he
too believed it was Dora; and still as he knelt that day
in church, there was beside him another face than Dora s,
a saucy, laughing, face, which we recognize as belong.
262 GIVING IN MARRIAGE.
ing to Jessie, who, at that very moment, while keeping
her companions in a constant turmoil and her father in
a constant scold, was thinking of him and saying men
tally :
" Poor Squire Russell ! how I pity him, left there all
alone ! and how I wonder if he misses me 1 "
CHAPTER XXVII.
MOKE OF MARRIAGE.
HE homestead where Dora s childhood had been
passed " could not be bought for love nor
money ; " so Robert, the negotiator, had re
ported to his brother on the morning following the lat-
ter s marriage, and so Richard reported to Dora, as he
sat with her at Mattie Randall s, up in the chamber
which Dora called hers, and where Anna had died.
Mattie had wished to give the bridal pair another room,
but Dora would take no other; and as Richard was satis
fied, they occupied the one whose walls had witnessed
so much sorrow in the days gone by. But there was no
grief there now, nothing but perfect bliss, as Richard
held his darling to his heart and told her for the thou
sandth time how dear she was to him, and how he
thanked the Father of all good for giving her to him at
last. In all his joy he never forgot his God, or placed Him
second to Dora, who listened and smiled and returned
his fond caresses until he told her of his plan to buy the
homestead, and how that plan had been defeated by the
refusal of the present proprietor. Then Dora hid her
264: MORE OF MARRIAGE.
fa.ce in his bosom and wept softly to the memory of her
old home, which Richard had tried so hard to buy back
for her.
" You are so good, so kind," she said, as he asked her
why she cried, and pitied what he thought was her dis
appointment. " It is not that," she contiiuied, as she
dried her tears. " It is your thoughtful love for me. I
should be very happy at the old place, but, Richard, I am
not sure that I should not be happier in Beech wood,
where I have lived so long, and where you have so
many friends. There John s children would be nearer
me, and I must care for them."
And so it was arranged that Richard should buy the
fine building spot to the right of Squire Russell s, and
that until the house he would erect should be completed,
Dora should remain at home and care for the children.
This plan, when submitted to the Squire, met his
hearty approval, and made the future look less dreary
than before. He should not be left alone entirely, for
Dora would be near to counsel and advise, and his face
was very bright and cheerful as he welcomed the travel
lers back from their long trip, which lasted until Febru
ary.
Towards the latter part of April, Jessie accepted of
Dora s cordial invitation to visit them again, and came
to Beechwood, the same bright, laughing, gleeful creatmre
as ever, the sunshiny being in whom, the moment he saw
MORE OF MARRIAGE. 265
he~ seated again by his fireside, Squire Russell recognized
thj want he had felt ever since she left him the winter
previous. He was so glad to have her back, his eldest
child he called her, and treated her much as if he had
been her father, notwithstanding that she made ludicrous
attempts at dignity, on the strength of being twenty her
next birthday, which was in June. Jessie was very
pretty this spring, Squire Russell thought when he
thought of her at all, and so thought the Rector of St.
Luke s, Mr. Kelly, who came nearly every day, ostensi
bly to talk with Mrs. Dr. West about some new plan for
advancing the interests of the Sunday-school, but really
to catch a glimpse of Jessie s sparkling beauty, or hear
some of her saucy sayings. But always, when he left the
house and went back to his bachelor rooms, he said to
himself, " It would never do. She is a frolicsome, pretty
little plaything, who would amuse and rest me vastly, but
she would shock my parishioners out of all the good
I could ever instill into their minds. No, it won t
do."
Robert West, too, whose pulse had beaten a little
faster at the sight of Jessie Verner, had given himself to
his country, so there was no one to contest the prize with
Squire Russell, into whose brain the idea that he could
win it never entered until Johnnie put it there. To
Johnnie it came suddenly, making him start quickly from
the book he was reading, and hurry off to Dr. West,
12
266 MORE OF MARRIAGE.
asking if Deacon Bowles was not a great deal older than
Mrs. Bowles, whom the villagers still called Amy, mak
ing her seem so youthful. The doctor thought he was,
but could not tell just how many years, and as this was
the point about which Johnnie was anxious, he conceived
the bold plan of calling on Mrs. Amy to ascertain, if
possible, her exact age, and also that of her husband.
He found her rocking her baby to sleep and looking very
pretty and girlish in her short hair, which she had taken
a fancy to have cut off. Amy was fond of Johnnie, and
she smiled pleasantly upon him, speaking in a whisper
and keeping up a constant " sh-sh-sh " as she moved the
cradle back and forth.
" What a nice baby," Johnnie began, as if he had never
seen it before ; " but it seems funny to see you with a
baby, when you look so like a girl. You can t be very
old."
" Turned thirty. Sh-sh " was the reply.
A gratified blush mounting Amy s cheek, while John
nie continued :
" Mother was thirty-two, and father was thirty-nine.
He is most forty-one now. Is the deacon older than
that?"
" Going on fifty-one. Sh-sh " Amy replied, her
" sh-sh s " being more decided as baby showed signs of
waking.
Johnnie had learned what he wished to know, and bid-
MORE OF MARRIAGE. 267
ding Mrs. Bowles good morning, he ran home, repeating
to himself:
" Turned thirty, going on fifty-one. Ought from one
is one, three from five is two. That makes twenty-one.
Most twenty, most forty-one. Ought from one is one,
two from four is two. TJtat makes twenty-one. Je
mima ! It ll do, it ll do ! " and Johnnie ran on with all
his might till he reached home, where he found Jessie,
whom he astonished with a hug which almost strangled her.
" It will do ! it will do ! " he exclaimed, as he kissed
her, and when she asked what would do, he answered, " I
know, I know, but I shan t tell ! " and he darted off, big
with the important thing which he knew and should not
tell.
That night, as Squire Russell sat in his library, John
nie came in and startled him with the question :
" Father, who will take care of us when Aunt Dora i?
gone ? Her new house will be done in September."
" I don t know, my son ; " and the Squire laid down his
paper, for the question which Johnnie asked had also beer:
troubling him.
There was silence a moment, during which Johnnie al
most twisted a button from his jacket, and then he broke
out abruptly :
" Why don t you get married ? "
" Married ! To whom ? " the Squire exclaimed ; and
Johnnie replied :
268 MORE OF MARRIAGE.
" You know. The nicest girl in all creation after Aunt
Dora. She isn t too young, neither. Amy Bowles is
twenty-one years younger than the deacon, and Jessie
ain t any more."
"Jessie! Jessie Verner!" the squire gasped, and
Johnnie continued :
"Yes, Jessie Verner; I most know she ll have you.
Any way, I ll make her. You break the ice, and I ll
pitch in ! Will you, father ? Will you have Jessie ? "
" It would be better to ask first if she ll have me," the
father replied, rubbing his head, which seemed a little
numb with the sudden shock.
" I hear her. I ll send her in ! You ask her, father ! "
Johnnie exclaimed, darting to the door, as he heard Jes
sie in the upper hall whistling " three hundred thousand
more."
As he reached the threshold he paused, while he
added :
" I guess Jessie will stand a huggin better than Aunt
Dora, so you might come that game on her ! " and John
nie rushed after Jessie ere his father had time to recover
his breath.
Jessie could not at once be found, and as Johnnie
would not tell her what his father wanted of her, she
was in no particular hurry to answer the summons, so
that Squire Russell had time to collect his thoughts, and
to discover that little Jessie Verner was very dear to him,
M ORE OF MARRIAGE. 269
and that though he had never entertained an idea of
making her his wife till Johnnie suggested it, the idea
was by no means distasteful, and if she were willing, why
of course he was. But would she come ? Yes, she was
coming, for he heard her in the hall calling back to
Johnnie :
lt Mind, now, if you have played me a trick you will
be sorry. I don t believe he wants me."
"Yes he does; you ask him," was Johnnie s reply,
and advancing into the library, Jessie began innocently :
" Johnnie said you wanted me. Do you, Squire Rus
sell!"
" Yes, Jessie, I do want you very much. Sit down
while I tell you."
He drew her chair near to himself, and wholly un
suspicious, Jessie sat down to listen, while he told her
how he wanted her.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
DORA S DIARY.
JAY 31st, 1863. I did not think when last I
closed this book, that I could ever be as
" happy as I am now, happy in everything,
happy in Richard s love, happy in the love of God, for
my precious husband has been the means of leading me
to the source of all happiness. He says I was a Chris
tian before, but I cannot believe it. At least, it was a
cold, tame kind of Christian, such as I never wish to be
again ! Dear Richard, how good and true he is, and
how he tries to make me happy. Every day I see some
new virtue in him, and the tears often come as I wonder
*
why God should have blessed me above the generality of
womankind. I know I have the kindest, and best, and
dearest husband in the world. He has gone for a few
days to Fortress Monroe, where Robert is at present with
his men, while Mother West has goije into the hospital
as nurse. She felt it was her duty, and we did not op
pose her, knowing how much good she would do to the
poor, suffering soldiers. My heart bleeds for them, and
yet I cannot feel it the doctor s duty to go. Somebody
DORAS DIARY. 271
must stay at home, and when I see how his patients
cling to him, and how useful he is here, I think it is his
place to stay. If I am wrong and selfish, may I be for
given.
" In the autumn our new house will he completed, and
then I shall leave Margaret s family, but not alone, for
Jessie is actually coming to be John s wife, and is now
at home making her preparations. Does Margaret know ?
If so, she surely feels kindly now toward the little girl,
who will make the best of mothers to the children.
" It was very strange, and though Richard and I had
laughed together over the possibility, it took me wholly by
surprise. I was sitting in my room one night last April,
waiting for Richard, when Jessie came rushing in, her
eyes red with weeping, and her frame quivering with
emotion. I was startled, particularly as she threw her
self on the floor beside me, and exclaimed :
" O Dora, I ve done the silliest thing, and father
will scold, I know } and call me a fool, and say I proposed,
when I didn t, though I am afraid I said yes too quick !
Do you think I did ? Tell me, do.
" Then I managed to get from her that she was engaged
to Squire Russell ; that Johnnie inveigled her in by say
ing his father wanted her ; that she asked if he did, and he
told her, Yes, he wanted her for his little wife ; wanted
to keep her always ! and she was so frightened.
" Oh, you don t know anything about it! she said.
272 DORA S DIAEY.
I felt just as T did once when I took chloroform to
have a tooth out, and acted just so, too, foolish like, for
I talked everything and told him everything ; how I was
a little bit of a body who did not know anything, who
had never learned anything, but had always done as I
pleased and always wanted to ; how I could not be sober
if I tried, and would not if I could ; how I was more
fit to be Johnnie s wife than his ; how father was not as
rich as some thought, but had two apoplectic fits ever so
long ago, and might have another any time and die, while
Bell and I would have to take care of ourselves, go out
governesses, or something ; and, maybe, if he knew that
he would not want me, but if he didn t, and I ever had
to be a governess, perhaps he would let me come here to
teach his children, and that was so silly for me to say,
and I knew it all the time, just like chloroform. And
then, O Dora, how ridiculous the next thing was. He
only laughed at the governess, and held me tighter, and
I guess, I am most sure, he kissed me ; and I am
awfully afraid I kissed him back ! Do you think I did ?
*
" I thought it quite likely, I said, and with a groan
Jessie continued :
tl ( The very silliest thing of all was my telling him I
could not darn his socks, nor make his shirts, and he
would have to wear big holes in them or go without ;
and, oh, do you believe, he laughed real loud, and said
he would go without ? Do you think he meant it ?
DORA S DIARY. 273
" Yes, Jessie, undoubtedly lie meant it, and Richard s
merry laugh broke in upon us.
" So absorbed had I been in Jessie that I had not heard
the doctor, who entered in time to hear the last of Jessie s
confession, and who at the recital of John s magnanimity
could restrain himself no longer, but laughed long and
loud, while Jessie wept silently. At last, however, we
managed to draw from her that in spite of all her faults,
every one of which she acknowledged, even to the fact
that sometimes when going to parties she powdered her
arms, and that four of her teeth were filled, John had
persisted in saying that he loved her, and could not live
without her ; that as to powder, Margaret always used it ;
that he knew a place on Broadway where he could get
the very best article in use ; that most everybody s teeth
were either false or filled by the time they were twenty,
and he guessed she was quite as genuine as any of the
feminine genus.
" Did you tell him about the cotton ? Richard asked,
wickedly, but Jessie innocently replied :
" * I don t know what you mean, but if it s Ihe sheets
and pillow-cases I am expected to furnish, Bell bought
four pieces just before the rise, and I know she will let
me have some. Any way, I shall not ask Squire Russell
to buy them, and thus Richard was foiled and I was glad.
"And so it is finally settled, and you are to be my
little sister ? Richard said, and Jessie replied :
12*
274 DORAS DIARY.
" Yes ; that is I told him to ask my father, and please,
Dr. West, will you write too and tell him how I did not
do the courting, or ever think of such a thing ? Father
will scold, I know, and maybe swear. He always does,
but I don t care, I
<f There was a call for Dr. "West, who went out leaving
us alone ; and then winding my arm around Jessie, I
said :
" ( And are you sure you love Squire Russell well enough
to be his wife ?
This question threw Jessie into another impetuous out
burst, and she exclaimed :
" * That is just what he asked me, too ; and if I had not
loved him before I should have done so when he said, " I
wish you to be certain, Jessie, so there need be no after-
repentance. E have borne one disappointment," and he
looked so white and sad. " A second would kill me. If
I take you now, and then have to give you up, my life
will go with you. Can you truly say you love me, Jessie,
and are perfectly willing to be mine ? "
" I wW? foolish then, Dora, for I told him straight out
how it was very sudden ; but the knowing he loved me
brought into life a feeling which kept growing and grow
ing so fast, that even in a few minutes it seemed as if I
had loved him all my life. He is so good and kind, and
will let me do just as I please. Don t you believe he
will ? "
DORA S DIARY. 275
" I had no doubt of it, and I smoothed her short curls
while she told me how sorry she was that she ever thought
Letitia stupid, or Jimmie less interesting than the others.
" It seems as if they died just to be out of my way,
and I do so wish they were back.
"Then she said that the wedding was to be the 25th of
June, her twentieth birthday, that is, if her father con
sented ; that John had promised to take her to Europe some
time, but not this year, and they were going instead to the
White Mountains, to Newport, and lots of places, and
Johnnie was going with them. Then she settled her bri
dal trousseau, even to the style of her gaiters, declaring
she would not have those horrid square toes, if they were
fashionable, for they made one s foot so clumsy, and she
put up her fairy little feet, which looked almost as small
as Daisy s. Dear little Jessie, of whom I once was jeal
ous! What a child she is, and what a task she is taking
upon herself! But her heart is in it, and that makes it
very easy. Had I loved John one half as well as she
seems to love him, I should not now be Richard s wife,
waiting for him by the window as I wait for Him many
nights, knowing that though he chides me for sitting up
so late, he is usually pleased to find me so, and kisses me
so tenderly as he calls me a naughty girl, and bids me
hurry to bed.
" JUNE 28th. The house is very still these days, for
John and Johnnie are gone, and with them all the bustle,
276 DORA S DIATtY.
the stir, and the excitement which has characterized our
home for the last few weeks. I invited Bell to return
with me from the wedding, but her father said no, he
could not spare both his daughters ; and so she stayed, her
tears falling so fast as she said to me at parting : You
cannot guess how lonely I am, knowing Jessie will never
come home to us again, just as she used to come.
"Poor Bell, I pity her ; but amid her tears I saw, as I
thought, a rainbow of promise. As the clergyman at
Morrisville chanced to be absent, Mr. Kelly went down
with us to perform the ceremony, and if I am not mis
taken he will go again and again until he brings Bell
away with him. The wedding was a quiet affair, save as
Jessie and Johnnie laughed and sported and played.
The bride and groom were, however, perfectly happy,
I know, which was more than could be said for the
Judge. At first he had, as Jessie predicted, said all kinds
of harsh things about the match, but Bell and Jessie won
him over, until he was ready to receive his son-in-law
with the utmost kindness, which he did, acting the polite,
urbane host to perfection, and only breaking down when
Jessie came to say good-by. Then he showed how much
he loved his baby, as he called her, commending her so
touchingly to her husband s patient care, because * she
was a wee, helpless thing, that we all cried, Richard and
all, while the Squire could not resist giving his fairy
bride a most substantial hug, right before us all, as he
DORA S DIAR7. 277
promised to care for her as tenderly as if she were his
little Daisy instead of his little wife. I have no fears for
them. It is a great responsibility which Jessie has as
sumed, but her sunny nature, which sees only the bright
est side, and the mighty love which her husband and
Johnnie have given her, will interpose between her and
all that otherwise might be hard to bear. God bless her.
God keep her in all her pleasant journey ings, and bring
her safely back to us, who wait and watch for her as for
the refreshing rain.
" DECEMBER 24th, 1863 CHRISTMAS EVE. Just one
year I have been Richard s wife, and in ,that time I can
not recall a single moment of sadness, or a time when
Richard s voice and manner were not just as kind and
loving as at first. My noble husband, how earnestly I
pray that I may be worthy of him, and make him as
happy as he makes me. We are in our new home now,
and I cannot think of a single wish ungratified. Every
thing is as I like it. The furniture is of my own and
Richard s selecting, and is as good as our means would
afford, not grand and costly like Mattie s and Jessie s,
but plain and nice, such as the furniture of a village doc
tor s wife ought to be. And Richard s mother is with us
now, resting from the toils of life as nurse in the hos
pital. We would like so much to keep her, but she says
No, not till the war is over ; then if my life is spared,
1 will come back to live and die with my children.
278 DORAS DIARY.
" Captain Robert is coming to-night and to-morrow all
take their Christmas dinner with me ; I said all, mean
ing John and Jessie, with their four children, and Mr.
Kelly, with his bride, Isabel. She has been here just a
week in the parsonage, which the people bought and fitted
tip when they heard their clergyman was to bring his wife
among them. Judge Yerner, too, is there, or rather at
Squire Russell s, where the children call him grandpa,
and where he seems very fond of staying. He will
divide his time between his daughters, and if that apo
plectic fit of which Jessie spoke ever does make its ap
pearance, Richard will be near to attend him, for the
Judge will have no other physician. Homoeopathy is all
a humbug, he says, but hanged if he will take any other
medicine. He has great pride now in Mrs. Squire Rus
sell, who certainly has developed into a wonderfully do
mestic woman, so that Richard even cites her for my ex
ample. . Perfectly happy at home, she seldom cares to
leave it, but stays contentedly with the children, to whom
she is a mother and a sister both. Johnnie calls her
-
Jessie, but to the others she is mamma to all intents and
purposes, and could Margaret know, she would surely
bless the whistling, hoydenish girl, who is all the world
now to husband and children both.
" Dear Jessie ! I might write vohimes in her praise, but
this is the very last page of my journal, kept for so many
years. The book is filled ; whatever there was of ro-
DORAS DIART. 279
mance in my girl history is within its pages, and here at
its close I write myself a happy, happy woman. From
the church-tower on the common the clock is striking
twelve, and Richard, coming in from his long cold ride
across the snow-clad hills, bids me a merry Christmas ;
then glancing at what I have written, he says, c Yes, dar
ling, God has been very good to us. Let us love Him
through the coming year more than ever we have done
before.
" With a full heart I say Amen, and so the story is
done."
THE END.
THE RECTOR OF ST. -MARK S.
THE RECTOR OF ST. MASKS.
CHAPTER I.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
||HE Sunday sermon was finished, and the young
rector of St. Mark s turned gladly from his study-
table to the pleasant south window where the
June roses were peeping in, and abandoned himself for a
few moments to the feeling of relief he always experienced
when his week s work was done. To say that no secular
thoughts had intruded themselves upon the rector s mind,
as he planned and wrote his sermon, would not be true,
for, though morbidly conscientious on many points and
earnestly striving to be a faithful shepherd of the souls
committed to his care, Arthur Leighton had all a man s
capacity to love and to be loved, and though he fought
and prayed against it, he had seldom brought a sermon to
the people of St. Mark s in which there was not a thought
of Anna Ruthven s soft, brown eyes, and the way they
would look at him across the heads of the congregation.
Anna led the village choir, and the rector was painfully
2S4 FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
conscious that far too much of earth was mingled with
his devotional feelings during the moments when, the
singing over, he walked from his chair to the pulpit, and
heard the rustle of the crimson curtain in the organ-loft
as it was drawn back, disclosing to view five heads, of
which Anna s was the centre. It was very wrong he
knew, and on the day when our story opens he had prayed
earnestly for pardon, when, after choosing his text, l( Si
mon, Simon, lovest thou me ? " instead of plunging at
once into his subject, he had, without a thought of what
he was doing, idly written upon a scrap of paper lying
near, " Anna, Anna, lovest thou me more than these ? "
the these referring to the wealthy Thornton Hastings, his
old classmate in college, who was going to Saratoga this
very summer for the purpose of meeting Anna Ruthven,
and deciding if she would do to become Mrs. Thornton
Hastings, and mistress of the house on Madison Square.
With a bitter groan for the enormity of his sin, and a fer
vent prayer for forgiveness, the rector had torn the slips
of paper in shreds and given himself so completely to his
work, that his sermon was done a full hour earlier than
usual, and he was free to indulge in reveries of Anna for
as long a time as he pleased.
" I wonder if Mrs. Meredith has come," he thought,
as, with his feet upon the window-sill, he sat looking
across the meadow to where the chimneys and gable
roof of Captain Humphreys house were visible, for Cap-
FRIDAY AFTERNOON. 285
tain Humphreys was Anna Ruthven s grandfather, and
it was there she had lived since she was three years old.
As if thoughts of Mrs. Meredith reminded him of
something else, the rector took from the drawer of his
writing-table a letter received the previous day, and
opening to the second page, read as follows :
(t Are you going anywhere this summer ? Of course
not, for so long as there is an unbaptized child, or a bed
ridden old woman in the parish, you must stay at home,
even if you do grow as rusty as did Professor Cobden s
coat before we boys made him a present of a new one.
I say, Arthur, there was a capital fellow spoiled when
you took to the ministry, with your splendid talents,
and rare gift for making people like and believe in you.
" Now, I suppose you will reply that for this denial
of self you look for your reward in heaven, and I sup
pose you are right ; but as I have no reason to think I
have stock in that region, I go in for a good time here,
and this summer I take Saratoga, where I expect to
meet one of your lambs, i hear you have in your flock
forty in all, their ages varying from sixteen to fifty. But
this particular lamb, Miss Anna Ruthven, is, I think,
the fairest of them all, and as I used to make you my
father confessor in the days when I was rusticated out in
Winsted, and fell so desperately in love with the six
Miss Larkins, each old enough to be my mother, so now
I confide to you the programme as marked out by Mrs.
2S6 FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
Julia Meredith, the general who brings the lovely Anna
in the field.
" We, that is, Mrs. Meredith and myself, are on the
best of terms. I lunch with her, dine with her, lounge
in her parlors, drive her to the park, take her to operas,
concerts, and plays, and compliment her good looks,
which are wonderfully well-preserved for a woman of
forty-five. I am twenty-six, you know, and so no one
ever associates us together in any kind of gossip. She
is the very quintessence of fashion, and I am one of the
danglers whose own light is made brighter by the reflec
tion of her rays. Do you see the point ? Well, then,
in return for my attentions, she takes a very sisterly in
terest in my future wife, and has adroitly managed to let
me know of her niece, a certain Anna Ruthven, who, in
asmuch as I am tired of city belles, will undoubtedly
suit my fancy, said Anna being very fresh, very artless,
and very beautiful withal. She is also niece to Mrs.
Meredith, whose only brother married very far beneath
him, when he took to wife the daughter of a certain old-
fashioned Captain Humphreys, a pillar, no doubt, in your
church. This young Ruthven was drowned, or hung, or
something, and the sister considers it as another proof of
his wife s lack of refinement and discretion, that at her
death, which happened when Anna was three years old,
she left her child to the charge of her parents, Captain
Humphreys and spouse, rather than to Mrs. Meredith s
FRIDAY AFTERNOON. 287
care, and that, too, in the very face of the lady s having
stood as sponsor for the infant, an act which you will
acknowledge as very unnatural and ungrateful in Mrs.
Ruthven, to say the least of it.
" You see I am telling you all this, just as if you did
not know Miss Anna s antecedents even better than my
self ; but possibly you do not know that, having arrived
at a suitable age, she is this summer to be introduced
into society at Saratoga, while I am expected to fall in
love with her at once, and make her Mrs. Hastings be
fore another winter. Now, in your straightforward way
of putting things, don t imagine that Mrs. Meredith has
deliberately told me all this, for she has not ; but I un
derstand her perfectly, and know exactly what she ex
pects me to do. Whether I do it or not depends partly
upon how I like Miss Anna, partly upon how she likes
me, and partly upon yourself.
" You know I was always famous for presentiments or
fancies, as you termed them, and the latest of these is
that you like Anna Ruthven. Do you ? Tell me, honor
bright, and by the memory of the many scrapes you got
me out of, and the many more you kept me from getting
into, I will treat Miss Anna as gingerly and brotherly as
if she were already your wife. I like her picture, which
I have seen, and believe I shall like the girl, but if you
say that by looking at her with longing eyes I shall be
guilty of breaking some one of the ten commandments, I
288 FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
don t know which, why, then, hands off at once. That s
fair, and will prove to you that, although not a parson
like yourself, there is still a spark of hcmor, if not of
goodness, in the breast of
" Yours truly,
"THORNTON HASTINGS.
" If you were here this afternoon, I d take you to
drive after a pair of bays, which are to sweep the stakes
at Saratoga this summer, and I d treat you to a finer
cigar than often finds its way to Hanover. Shall I send
you out a box, or would your people pull down the
church about the ears of a minister wicked enough to
smoke. Again adieu.
"T. H."
There was a half-amused smile on the face of the rec
tor as he finished the letter, so like its thoughtless, light-
hearted writer, and wondered what the Widow Rider,
across the way, would say of a clergyman who smoked
cigars, and rode after a race-horse with such a gay scape
grace as Thornton Hastings. Then the amused look
passed away, and was succeeded by a shadow of pain, as
the rector remembered the real import of Thornton s
letter, and felt that he had no right to say, " I have a
claim on Anna Ruthven ; you must not interfere." For
he had no claim on her, though half his parishioners had
FEIDA T AFTERNOON. 28 9
long ago given her to him, while he had loved her, as
only natures like his can love, since that week before
Christmas, when their hands had met with a strange
tremulous flutter, as together they fastened the wreaths
o:f evergreen upon the wall, he holding them up, and she
driving the refractory tacks, which would keep falling, so
that his hand went often from the carpet or basin to
hers, and once accidentally closed almost entirely over the
little soft white thing, which felt so warm to his touch.
How prettily Anna had looked to him during those
memorable days, so much prettier than the other young
girls of his flock, whose hair was tumbled ere the day s
work was done, and whose dresses were soiled and dis
ordered ; while hers was always so tidy and neat, and
the braids of her chestnut hair were always so smooth
and bright. How well, too, he remembered that brief
ten minutes, when, in the dusky twilight which had crept
so early into the church, he stood alone with her and
talked, he did not know of what, only that he heard her
voice replying to him, and saw the changeful color on
her cheek as she looked modestly into his face. That
was a week of delicious happiness, and the rector had
lived it over many times, wondering if, when the next
Christmas came, it would find him any nearer to Anna
Ruthven than the last had left him.
" It must," he suddenly exclaimed. " The matter
shall be settled before she leaves Hanover with Mrs.
13
290 FRIDAY AFTERNOON.
Meredith. My claim is superior to Thornton s, and he
shall not take her from me. I ll write what I lack the
courage to tell her, and to-morrow I will call and deliver
it myself."
An hour later, and there was lying in the rectoi* s
desk a letter, in which he had told Anna Ruthven how
much he loved her, and had asked her to be his wife.
Something whispered that she would not refuse him, and
with this hope to buoy him up, his two miles walk that
warm afternoon was neither warm nor tiresome, and the
old lady by whose bedside he read and prayed was sur
prised to hear him as he left her door, whistling an old
love-tune which she, too, had known and sang fifty years
before.
CHAPTER II.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
|RS. JULIA MEREDITH had arrived, and the
brown farm-house was in a state of unusual ex
citement ; not that Captain Humphreys or his
good wife, Aunt Ruth, respected very highly the great
lady who so seldom honored them with her presence, and
who always tried to impress them with a sense of her
superiority, and the mighty favor she conferred upon
them by occasionally condescending to bring her aristo
cratic presence into their quiet, plain household, and turn
it topsy-turvy. Still she was Anna s aunt, and then it
was a distinction which Aunt Ruth rather enjoyed, that
of having a fashionable city woman for her guest, and
so she submitted with a good grace to the breaking in
upon all her customs, and uttered no word of complaint
when the breakfast-table waited till eight, and sometimes
nine o clock, and the freshest eggs were taken from the
nest, and the cream all skimmed from the pans to gratify
the lady who came very charming and pretty in her
handsome cambric wrapper, with rosebuds in her hair.
She had arrived the previous night, and while the rector
292 SA TURD A 7 A FTERNO ON.
was penning his letter, she was running her eye rapidly
over Anna s face and form, making an inventory of her
charms, and calculating their value.
" A very graceful figure, neither too short nor too tall.
This she gets from the Ruthvens. Splendid eyes and
magnificent hair, when Valencia has once taken it in
hand. Complexion a little too brilliant, but a few weeks
of dissipation will cure that. Fine teeth, and features
tolerably regular, except that the mouth is too wide and
the forehead too low, which defects she takes from the
Humphreys. Small feet and rather pretty hands, except
that they seem to have grown wide since I saw her be
fore. Can it be these horrid people have set her to milk
ing the cows ? "
These were Mrs. Meredith s thoughts that first evening
after her arrival at the farm-house, and she had not
materially changed her mind when the next afternoon
she went with Anna down to the Glen, for which she
affected a great fondness, because she thought it was
romantic and girlish to do so, and she was far from hav
ing passed the period when women cease caring for youth
and its appurtenances. She had criticised Anna s taste
in dress, had said that the belt she selected did not
harmonize with the color of the muslin she wore, and
suggested that a frill of lace about the neck would be
softer and more becoming than the stiff white linen
collar.
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 293
" But in the country it does not matter," she added.
" Wait till I get you to New York, under Madam
Blank s supervision, and then we shall see a transforma
tion such as will astonish the Hanoverians."
This was up in Anna s room ; and when the Glen was
veached Mrs. Meredith continued the conversation, tell
ing Anna of her plans for taking her first to New York,
where she was to pass through a reformatory process
with regard to dress. Then they were going to Saratoga,
where she expected her niece to reign supreme, both as a
beauty and a belle.
" Whatever I have at my death I shall leave to you,"
she said ; " consequently you will pass as an heiress ex
pectant, and I confidently expect you to make a brilliant
match before the winter season closes, if, indeed, you do
not before we leave Saratoga."
" O aunt," Anna exclaimed, her eyes flashing with
unwonted brilliancy, and the rich color mantling her
cheek. " You surely are not taking me to Saratoga on
such a shameful errand as that ? "
" Shameful errand as what ? " Mrs. Meredith asked,
looking quickly up, while Anna replied :
" Trying to find a husband. I cannot go if you are,
much as I have anticipated it. I should despise and
hate myself forever. No, aunt, I cannot go."
" Nonsense, child. You don t know what you are
saying," Mrs. Meredith retorted, feeling intuitively that
294: SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
she must change her tactics and keep her real intentions
concealed if she would lead her niece into the snare laid
for her.
Cunningly and carefully for the next half hour she
talked, telling Anna that she was not to be thrust upon
the notice of any one, that she herself had no patience
with those intriguing mammas who push their bold
daughters forward, but that as a good marriage was the
ultima thule of a woman s hopes, it was but natural that
she, as Anna s aunt, should wish to see her well settled
in life, and settled, too, near herself, where they could
see each other every day.
" Of course there is no one in Hanover whom you, as
a Ruthven, would stoop to marry," she said, fixing her
eyes inquiringly upon Anna, who was pulling to pieces
the wild flowers she had gathered, and thinking of
that twilight hour when she had talked with their
young clergyman as she never talked before. Of the
many times, too, when they had met in the cottages
of the poor, and he had walked slowly home with her,
lingering by the gate as if loth to say good-by, she
thought, and the life she had lived since he first clime to
Hanover, and she learned to blush when she met the
glance of his eye, looked fairer far than the life her aunt
marked out as the proper one for a Ruthven.
" You have not told me yet. Is there any one in
Hanover whom you think worthy of you ? " Mrs. Mere-
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 295
dith asked, just as a footstep was heard, and the rector
of St. Mark s came round the rock where they were
sitting.
He had called at the farm-house, bringing the letter,
and with it a book of poetry, of which Anna had asked
the loan.
Taking advantage of her guest s absence, Grandma
Humphreys had gone to a neighbor s after a receipt foi
making a certain kind of cake, of which Mrs. Meredith
was very fond, and only Esther, the servant, and Valen
cia, the smart waiting-maid, without whom Mrs. Mere
dith never travelled, were left in charge.
" Miss Anna s down in the Glen with Mrs. Meredith.
Will you be pleased to wait while I call them ? " Esther
said, in reply to the rector s inquiries for Miss Ruthven.
"No, T will find them myself," Mr. Leighton rejoined.
Then, as he thought how impossible it would be to
give the letter to Anna in the presence of her aunt, he
slipped it into the book, which he bade Esther take to
Miss Ruthven s room.
Knowing how honest and faithful Esther was, the
rector felt that he could trust her without a fear for
the safety of his letter, and went to the Glen, where
the tell-tale blushes which burned on Anna s cheek at
sight of him more than compensated for the coolness
with which Mrs. Meredith greeted him. She, too, had
detected Anna s embarrassment, and when the stranger
296 SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
was presented to her as " Mr. Leighton, our clergyman,"
the secret was out.
" Why is it that since the beginning of time girls have
run wild after young ministers ? " was her mental com
ment, as she bowed to Mr. Leighton, and then quietly
inspected his personnel.
There was nothing about Arthur Leighton s appear
ance with which she could find fault. He was even
finer-looking thztn Thornton Hastings, her beau ideal of
a man, and as he stood a moment by Anna s side, look
ing down upon, her, the woman of the world acknowl
edged to herself that they were a well-assorted pair,
and as across the chasm of twenty years there came
to her an episode in her life, when, on just such a clay
as this, she had answered " no " to one as young and
worthy as Arthur Leighton, while all the time the
heart was clinging to him, she softened for a moment,
and by the memory of the weary yeai-s passed with
the rich old man whose name she bore, she was tempted
to leave alone the couple standing there before her, and
looking into each other s eyes with a look which she
could not mistake. But when she remembered that
Arthur was only a poor clergyman, and thought of that
house on Madison Square which Thornton Hastings
owned, the softened mood was changed, and Arthur
Leighton s chance with her was gone.
Awhile they talked together in the Glen, and then
SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 297
walked back to the farm-house, where the rector bade
them good-evening, after casually saying to Anna :
" I brought the book you spoke of when I was here
last. You will find it in your room, where I asked
Esther to take it."
That Mr. Leighton should bring her niece a book did
not seem strange at all, but that he should be so very
thoughtful as to tell Esther to take it to her room struck
Mrs. Meredith as rather odd, and as the practised war-
horse scents the battle from afar, so she at once suspected
something wrong, and felt a curiosity to know what the
book could be.
It was lying on Anna s table as she reached the door
on her way to her own room, and pausing for a moment,
she entered the chamber, took it in her hands, read the
title page, and then opened it where the letter lay.
" Miss Anna Ruthven," she said. " He writes a fair
hand ; " and then, as the thought, which at first was
scarce a thought, kept growing in her mind, she turned
it over, and found that, owing to some defect, it had be
come unsealed, and the lid of the envelope lay temptingly
open before her. " I would never break a seal," she
said, " but surely, as her protector, and almost mother, I
may read what this minister has written to my niece."
And so she read what he had written, while a scowl
of disapprobation marred the smoothness of her brow.
" It is as I feared. Once let her see this, and Thornton
13*
298 SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
Hastings may woo in vain. But it shall not be. It is
my duty, as the sister of her dead father, to interfere,
and not let her throw herself away."
Perhaps Mrs. Meredith really felt that she was doing
her duty. At all events she did not give herself much
time to reason upon the matter, for, startled by a slight
movement in the room directly opposite, the door of
which was ajar, she thrust the letter into her pocket,
and turned to see Valencia, standing with her back
to her, and arranging her hair in a mirror which hung
upon the wall.
" She could not have seen me ; and, even if she
did, she would not suspect the truth," was the guilty
woman s thought, as with the stolen missive in her
pocket she went down to the parlor, and tried, by pet
ting Anna more than her wont, to still the voice of con
science, which clamored loudly of the wrong, and urged
a restoration of the letter to the place whence it was
taken.
But the golden moment fled, and when, later in the
evening, Anna went up to her chamber, and opened the
book which the rector had brought, she never suspected
how near she had been to the great happiness she had
sometimes dared to hope for, or dreamed how fervently
Arthur Leighton prayed that night, that if it were possi
ble, God would grant the boon he craved above all others,
the priceless gift of Anna Kuthven s love.
CHAPTER III.
SUNDAY.
[[HERE was an unnatural flush on the rector s
face, and his lips were very white, when he
came before his people that Sunday morning, for
he felt that he was approaching the crisis of his fate ;
that he had only to look aeross the row of heads, tip to
where Anna sat, and he should know the truth. Such
thoughts savored far too much of the world which he had
renounced, he knew, and he had striven to banish them
from his mind ; but they were there still, and would be
there until he had glanced once at Anna, who was occu
pying her accustomed seat, and quietly turning to the
chant she was so soon to sing : " Oh, come, let us sing
unto the Lord; let us heartily rejoice in the strength of
His salvation." The words echoed through the house,
filling it with rare melody, for Anna was in perfect tone
that morning, and the rector, listening to her with hands
folded upon his prayer-book, felt that she could not thus
<c heartily rejoice," meaning all the while to darken his
whole life, as she surely would if she told him " no." He
was looking at her now, and she met his eyes at last, but
300 8UNDA Y.
quickly dropped her own, while he was sure that tha
roses burned a little brighter on her cheek, and that her
voice trembled just enough to give him hope, and help him
in his fierce struggle to cast her from his mind, and think
ouly of the solemn services in which he was engaging.
He could not guess that the proud woman who had sailed
so majestically into church, and followed so reverently
every prescribed form, bowing in the creed far lower than
ever bow was made before in Hanover, had played him
false, and was the dark shadow in his path.
That day was a trying one for Arthur, for, just as the
chant was ended, and the psalter was beginning, a hand
some carriage dashed up to the door, and had he been
wholly blind, he would have known, by the sudden sound
of turning heads, and the suppressed hush which ensued,
that a perfect hailstorm of dignity was entering St.
Mark s.
It was the Hethertons, from Prospect Hill, whose ar
rival in town had been so long expected. There was Mrs.
Hetherton, who, more years ago than she cared to re
member, was born in Hanover, but who had lived most of
her life either in Paris, New York, or New Orleans, and
who this year had decided to fit up her father s old place,
and honor it with her presence for a few weeks at least ;
also, Fanny Hetherton, a brilliant brunette, into whose
intensely black eyes no one could long look, they were so
bright, so piercing, and seemed so thoroughly to read one s
SUNDAY. 301
inmost thoughts ; also, Colonel Hetherton, who had
served in the Mexican war, and retiring on the glory of
having once led a forlorn hope, now spent his time in act-
ins; as attendant on his fashionable wife and daughter ;
O O 7
also, young Simon Bellamy, who, while obedient to the
flashing of Miss Fanny s black eyes, still found stolen op
portunities for glancing at the fifth and last remaining
member of the party, filing up the aisle to the large,
square pew, where old Judge Howard used to sit, and
which was still owned by his daughter. Mrs. Hetherton
liked being late at church, and, notwithstanding that the
colonel had worked himself into a tempest of excitement,
had tied and untied her bonnet-strings half a dozen times,
changed her rich basquine for a thread lace mantilla, and
then, just as the bell from St. Mark s gave forth its
last note, and her husband s impatience was oozing out
in sundry little oaths, sworn under his breath, she pro
duced and fitted on her fat, white hands a new pair of
Alexanders, keeping herself as cool, and quiet, and lady
like as if outside upon the gravelled walk there was no
wrathful husband threatening to drive off and leave her,
if she did not " quit her cussed vanity, and come along."
Such was the Hetherton party, and they created quite
as great a sensation as Mrs. Hetherton could desire, first
upon the people nearest the door, who rented the cheaper
pews ; then upon those farther up the aisle, and then upon
Mrs. Meredith, who, attracted by the rustling of heavy
302 SUNDAY.
silk and the perfume emanating from Mrs. Hetherton a
handkerchief, slightly turned her head at first, and as the
party swept by, stopped her reading entirely, and invol-
untai-ily started forward, while a smile of pleasure flitted
across her face as Fanny s black, saucy eyes took her, with,
others, within their range of vision, and Fanny s black head
nodded a quick nod of recognition. The Ilethertons and
Mrs. Meredith were evidently friends, and in her wonder
at seeing them there, in stupid Hanover, the great lady
forgot for a while to read, but kept her eyes upon them all,
especially upon the fifth and last-mentioned member of
the party, the graceful little blonde, whose eyes might
have caught their hue from the deep blue of the summer
sky, and whose long silken curls fell in a golden shower
beneath the fanciful French hat. She was a beautiful
young creature, and even Anna Rxithven leaned forward
to look at her as she shook out her airy muslin and
dropped into her seat. For a moment the little coquet
tish head bowed reverently, but at the first sound of the
rector s voice it lifted itself up quickly, and Anna saw
the bright color which rushed into her cheeks, and the
eager joy which danced in the blue eyes, fixed so earnestly
upon the rector, who, at sight of her, started suddenly,
and paused an instant in his reading. "Who was she, and
what was she to Arthur Leighton, Anna asked herself,
while, by the fierce pang which shot through her heart as
she watched the stranger and the clergyman, she knew
SUNDAY. 303
that she loved the rector of St. Mark s, even if she had
doubted it before.
Anna was not an ill-tempered girl, but the sight of
those gay city people annoyed her, and when, as she sang
the Jubilate Deo, she saw the soft blue orbs of the blonde
and the coal-black eyes of the brunette turned wonder-
iugly towards her, she was conscious of returning their
glunce with as much of scorn as it was possible for her to
show. Anna tried to ask forgiveness for that feeling in
the prayers which followed ; but when the services were
over, and she saw a little figure in blue and white
flitting up the aisle to where Arthur, still in his robes,
stood waiting for her, an expression upon his face which
she could not define she felt that she had prayed in vain;
and with a bitterness she had never before experienced,
she watched the meeting between them, growing more and
more bitter as she saw the upturned face, the wreathing
of the rose-bud lips into the sweetest of smiles, and the
tiny white hand, which Arthur took and held while he
spoke words she would have given much to hear.
<( Why do I care ? It s nothing to me," she thought,
and, with a proud step, she was leaving the church, when
her aunt, who was shaking hands with the Herthertons,
signed for her to join her.
The blonde was now coming down the aisle with Mr.
Leighton, and joined the group just as Anna was intro
duced as " My niece, Miss Anna Ruthven."
304 SUNDAY.
tl Oh, you are the Anna of whom I have heard so much
from Ada Fuller. You were at school together in Troy,"
Miss Fanny said, her searching eyes taking in every point
as if she were deciding how far her new acquaintance was
entitled to the praise she had heard bestowed upon her.
" I knew Miss Fuller, yes ; " and Anna bowed haugh-
ily, turning next to the blonde, Miss Lucy Harcourt,
who was telling Colonel Hetherton how she had met Mr.
Leighton first among the Alps, and afterwards travelled
with him until their party returned to Paris, where he left
them for America.
" I was never so surprised in my life as I was to find
him here. Why, it actually took my breath for a mo
ment," she went on, " and I greatly fear that, instead of
listening to his sermon, I have been roaming amid that
Alpine scenery, and basking again in the soft moonlight
of Venice. I heard you singing, though," she said, when
Anna was presented to her, " and it helped to keep up
the illusion, it was so like the music heard from a gon
dola that night when Mr. Leighton and myself made a
voyage through the streets of Venice. Oh, it was so
beautiful," and the blue eyes turned to Mr. Leighton for
confirmation of what the lips had uttered.
" Which was beautiful ? Miss Ruthven s singing or
that moonlight night in Venice ? " young Bellamy asked,
smiling down upon the little lady, who still held Anna s
hand, and who laughingly replied :
SUNDAY. 305
" Both, of course, though the singing is just now fresh
est in my memory, I liked it so much. You must have
had splendid teachers," and she turned again to Anna,
whose face was suffused with blushes as she met the rec
tor s eyes, for to his suggestions and criticisms and teach
ings she owed much of that cultivation which had so
pleased and surprised the stranger.
" Oh, yes, I see it was Arthur. He tried to train me
once, and told me I had a squeak in my voice. Don t
you remember ? those frightfully rainy days in Rome ? "
Miss Harcourt said, the Arthur dropping from her lips
as readily as if they had always been accustomed to speak
it.
She was a talkative, coquettish little lady, but there
was something about her so genuine and cordial, that
Anna felt the ice thawing around her heart, and even re
turned the pressure of the fingers which had twined them
selves around her, as Lucy rattled on until the whole
party left the church. It had been decided that Mrs.
Meredith should call at Prospect Hill as early as Tues
day, at least ; and, still holding Anna s hand, Miss Har
court whispered to her the pleasure it would be to see her
again.
" I know I am going to like you. I can tell directly I
see a person, can t I, Arthur ? " and kissing her hand
to Mrs. Meredith, Anna, and the rector, too, she sprang
into the carriage, and was whirled rapidly away.
306 SUNDAY.
" Who is she ? " Anna asked, and Mr. Leigliton re
plied :
" She is an orphan niece of Colonel Hetherton s and a
great heiress, I believe, though I never paid much atten
tion to the absurd stories told concerning her wealth."
" You met in Europe," Mrs. Meredith said, and he re
plied :
"Yes, she has been quite an invalid, and has spent
four years abroad, where I accidently met her. It was a
very pleasant party, and I was induced to join it, though
I was with them in all not more than four months."
He told this very rapidly, and an acute observer would
have seen that he did not care particularly to talk of
Lucy TTarcourt, with Anna for an auditor. She was
walking very demurely at his side, pondering in her mind
the circumstances which could have brought the rector
and Lucy Harcourt in such familiar relations as to warrant
her calling him Arthur, and appearing so delighted to see
him.
" Can it be there was anything between them ? " she
thought, and her heart began to harden against the inno
cent Lucy, at that very moment chatting so pleasantly
of her and of Arthur, too, replying to Mrs. Ilethcrton,
who suggested that Mr. Leighton would be more appro
priate for a clergyman :
" I shall say Arthur, for he told me I might when we
were in Rome. I could not like him as well if I called
SUNDAY. 307
him Mr. Leighton. Isn t he splendid though in his
gown, and wasn t his sermon grand ? "
" What was the text ? " asked Mr. Bellamy mischiev
ously, and with a toss of her golden curls and a merry
twiiikle of her eyes, Lucy replied, " Simon, Simon, lovest
thou me ? "
Quick as a flndi of lightning the hot blood mounted to
his face, while Fanny cast upon him a searching glance
as if she would read him through. Fanny Hetherton
would have given much to know the answer which
Mr. Simon Bellamy mentally gave to that question, put
by one whom he had known but little more than three
months. It was not fair for Lucy to steal away all Fan
ny s beaux, as she surely had been doing ever since her
feet touched the soil of the New World, and truth to tell
Fanny had borne it very well, until young Mr. Bellamy
showed signs of desertion. Then the spirit of resistance
was roused, and she watched her lover narrowly, gnashing
her teeth sometimes when she saw his ill-concealed ad
miration for her sprightly little cousin, who could say and
and do with perfect impunity so many things which in
another would have been improper to the last degree.
She was a tolerably correct reader of human nature, and
from the moment she witnessed the meeting between
Lucy and the rector of St. Mark s she took courage, for
she readily guessed the channel in which her cousin s pref
erence ran. The rector, however, she could not read so
308 BUNDA F.
well ; but few men she knew could withstand the fascina
tions of her cousin, backed as they were by the glamour
of half a million ; and though her mother, and possibly
her father too, would be shocked at the mesalliance and
throw obstacles in its way, she was capable of removing
them all, and she would do it, too, sooner than lose the only
man she had ever cared for. These were Fanny s thoughts
as she rode home from church that Sunday afternoon, and
by the time Prospect Hill was reached Lucy Harcourt
could not have desired a more powerful ally than she pos
sessed in the person of her resolute, strong-willed cousin.
CHAPTER IV.
BLUE MONDAY.
IT was to all intents and purposes " blue Mon
day " with the rector of St. Mark s, for aside
from the weariness and exhaustion which al-
wa} s followed his two services on Sunday, and his care
of the Sunday-school, there was a feeling of disquiet and
depression, occasioned partly by that rencontre with
pretty Lucy Harcourt, and partly by the uncertainty as
to what Anna s answer might be. He had seen the look
of displeasure on her face as she stood watching him and
Lucy, and though to many this would have given hope,
it only added to his nervous fears lest his suit should be
denied. He was sorry that Lucy Harcourt was in the
neighborhood, and sorrier still for her tenacious memory,
which had evidently treasured up every incident which
he could wish forgotten. With Anna Ruthven absorb
ing every thought and feeling of his heart, it was not
pleasant to remember what had been a genuine flirtation
between himself and the sparkling belle he had met
among the Alps.
310 BLUE MONDAY.
It was nothing but a flirtation he knew, for in his in
most soul he absolved himself from ever having had a
thought of matrimony connected with Lucy Harcourt.
He had admired her greatly and loved to wander with
her amid the Alpine scenery, listening to her wild bursts
of enthusiasm, and watching the kindling light in her
blue eyes, and the color coming to her thin, pale cheeks,
as she gazed upon some scene of grandeur, and clung
close to him as for protection, when the path was fraught
with peril.
Afterwards in Venice, beneath the influence of those
glorious moonlight nights, he had been conscious of a
deeper feeling, which, had he tarried longer at the syren s
side, might have ripened into love. But he left her just
in time to escape what he felt would have been a most
unfortunate affair for him, for sweet and beautiful as she
was, Lucy was not the wife for a clergyman to choose.
She was not like Anna Ruthven, whom both young and
old bad said was so suitable for him.
" And just because she is suitable, I may not win her,
perhaps," he thought, as he paced up and down his
library, wondering when she would answer his letter, and
wondering next how he could persuade Lucy Harcourt
that between the young theological student, sailing in a
gondola through the streets of Venice, and the rector of
St. Mark s, there was a vast difference ; that while the
former might be Arthur with perfect propriety, the
BLUE MONVA7. 311
latter should be Mr. Leigliton, in Anna s presence, at
least.
And yet the rector of St. Mark s was conscious of a
pleasurable emotion, even now, as he recalled the time
when she had, at his request, first called him Arthur, her
birdlike voice hesitating just a little, and her soft eyes
looking coyly up to him, as she said :
" I am afraid that Arthur is hardly the name by which
to call a clergyman."
" I am not in orders yet, so let me be Arthur to you.
I love to hear you call me so, and you to me shall be
Lucy," was his reply.
A mutual clasp of hands had sealed the compact, and
that was the nearest to a love-making of anything which
had passed between them, if we except the time when he
had said good-by, and wiped away the tear which came
unbidden to her eye as she told him how lonely she
should be without him.
Hers was a nature as transparent as glass, and the
young man, who for days had paced the ship s deck so
moodily, was fighting back the thoughts which whispered
that in his intercourse with her he had not been all
guileless, and that if in her girlish heart there was feel
ing for him stronger than that of friendship, he had
helped to give it life.
Time and absence and Anna Ruthven had obliterated
all such thoughts till now, when Lucy herself had
312 BLUE MONDAY.
brought them back again with her winsome ways, and
her evident intention to begin just where they had left
off.
" Let Anna tell me yes, and I will at once proclaim
our engagement, which will relieve me from all em
barrassments in that quarter," the clergymen was think
ing, just as his housekeeper came up, bringing him.
two notes, one in a strange handwriting, and the other in
the graceful running hand which he recognized as Lucy
Harcourt s.
This he opened first, reading as follows :
" PROSPECT HILL, June ."
"MR. LEIGHTON. DEAR SIR: Cousin Fanny is to
have a picnic down in the weet woods to-morrow after
noon, and she requests the pleasure of your presence.
Mrs. Meredith and Miss Ruthven are to be invited. Do
come. " Yours truly,
" LUCY."
Yes, he would go, and if Anna s answer did not come
before, he would ask her for it. There would be plenty
of opportunities down in those deep woods. On the
whole, it would be pleasanter to hear the words from her
own lips, and see the blushes on her cheeks when he
tried to look into her eyes.
The imaginative rector could almost see those eyes,
BLUE MONDAY. 313
and feel the touch of her hand as he took the other note,
which Mrs. Meredith had shut herself in her room to
write, and sent slyly by Valencia, who was to tell no one
where she had been.
A gleam of intelligence had shone in Valencia s eyes
as she took the note and carried it safely to the parson
age, never yielding to the temptation to read it as she
had read the one found in her mistress s pocket, while
the family were at church.
Mrs. Meredith s note was as follows :
" MY DEAR MR. LEIGHTON : It is my niece s wish
that I answer the letter you were so kind as to enclose
in the book left for her last Saturday. She desires me
to say that though she has a very great regard for you as
her clergyman and friend, she cannot be your wife, and
she regrets exceedingly if she has in any way led you to
construe the interest she has always manifested in you
into a deeper feeling.
" She begs me to say that it gives her great pain to re
fuse one as noble and good as she knows you to be, and
she only does it because she cannot find in her heart the
love without which no marriage can be happy.
" She is really very wretched about it, because she
fears she may lose your friendship, which she prizes so
much ; and, as a proof that she will not, she asks that the
subject may never, in any way, be alluded to ; that when
you meet it may be exactly as heretofore, without a word
r
314 BLUE MONDAY.
or sign on your part that you ever offered her the high
est honor a man can offer a woman.
" And I am sure, my dear Mr. Leighton, that you will
accede to her wishes. I am very sorry it has occurred,
sorry for you both, and especially sorry for you ; but be
lieve me, you will get over it in time, and come to see
that my niece is not a proper person to be a clergyman s
wife.
" Come and see us as usual. You will find Anna ap
pearing very natural.
* Yours cordially and sincerely,
" JULIE MEREDITH."
This was the letter which the cruel woman had
written, and it dropped from the rector s fingers, as,
with a groan, he bent his head upon the back of a chair,
and tried to realize the magnitude of the blow which had
fallen so suddenly upon him. Not till now did he real-
.ize how, amid all his doubts, he had still been sure of
winning her, and the shock was terrible.
He had staked his all on Anna, and lost it ; the world,
which before had been so bright, looked very dreary nowj
while he felt that he could never again come before his
people weighed down with so great a load of pain and
humiliation ; for it touched the young man s pride that,
not content to refuse him, Anna had chosen another than
hersejf as the medium through which her refusal mubt bo
BLUE MONDAY. 315
conveyed to him. He did not fancy Mrs. Meredith.
He would rather she did not possess his secret, and it
hurt him to know that she did.
It was a bitter hour for the clergyman, for strong and
clear as was his faith in God, he lost sight of it for a time,
and poor, weak human nature cried :
" It s more than I can bear."
But as the mother does not forget her child, even
though she passes from its sight, so God had not for
gotten, and the darkness broke at last and the lips could
pray again for strength to bear and faith to do all that
God might require.
" Though He slay me I will trust Him," came like a
ray of sunlight into the rector s mind ; and ere the day was
over he could say with a full heart, " Thy will be done."
He was very pale, and his lip quivered occasionally as
he thought of all he had lost, while a blinding headache,
induced by strong excitement, drove him nearly wild
with pain. He had been subject to headaches all his life,
but he had never suffered as he was suffering now but
once, and that on a rainy day in Rome, when, boasting of
her mesmeric power, Lucy had stood by him, and
passed her hands soothingly across his throbbing temples.
How soft and cool they were, but they had not
thrilled him as the touch of Anna s did when they hung
the Christmas wreaths and she wore that bunch of scar
let berries in her hair.
316 BLUE MONDAY.
That time seemed very far away, farther even than
Rome and the moonlight nights of Venice. He did not
like to think of it, for the bright hopes which were bud
ding then were blighted now, and dead ; and with a moan,
he laid his aching head upon his pillow, and tried to for
get all he had ever hoped or longed for in the future.
" She will marry Thornton Hastings. He is a more
eligible match than a poor clergyman," he said, and then,
as he remembered Thornton s letter, and that his man
Thomas would be coming soon to ask if there were letters
to be taken to the office, he arose, and going to the study
table, wrote hastily :
" DEAR THORNE : ^-1 am suffering from one of those
horrid headaches which used to make me as weak and
helpless as a woman, but I will write just enough to say
that I have no claim on Anna Ruthven, and you are free
to press your suit as urgently as you please. She is a
noble girl, worthy even to be Mrs. Thornton Hastings,
and if I cannot have her, I would rather give her to you
than any one I know. Only don t ask me to perform the
ceremony.
" There, I ve let the secret out, but no matter, I have
always confided in you, and so 1 may as well confess that
I have offered myself and been refused.
" Yours truly,
" ARTHUR LEIGHTON."
BLUE MONDAY. 317
The rector felt better after that letter was written.
lie had told his grievance to some one, and it seemed to
have lightened half the load.
" Thome is a good fellow," he said, as he directed the
letter. " A. little fast, it s true, but a splendid fellow
after all. He will sympathize with me in his way, and I
would rather give Anna to him than any other living
man."
Arthur was serious in what he said, for, wholly unlike
as they were, there was between him and Thornton Hast
ings one of those strong friendships which sometimes
exist between two men, but rarely between two women,
of so widely different temperaments. They had roomed
together four years in college, and countless were the
difficulties from which the sober Arthur had extricated
the luckless Thorne, while many a time the rather slender
means of Arthur had been increased in a way so delicate
tbat expostulation was next to impossible.
Arthur was better off now in worldly goods, for by the
death of an uncle he had come in possession of a few
thousand dollars, which had enabled him to travel in
Europe for a year, and left a surplus, from which he fed
the poor and needy with no sparing hand
St. Mark s was his first parish, and though he could
have chosen one nearer to New York, where the society
was more congenial to his taste, he had accepted of what
God offered to him, and had been very happy there since
318 BLUE MONDAY.
Anna Ruthven came home from Troy and made such
havoc with his heart. He did not believe he should ever
be quite so happy again, but he would try to do his work,
and take thankfully whatever of good might come to him.
This was his final decision, and when at last he laid
down to rest, the wound, though deep and sore, and
bleeding yet, was not quite as hard to bear as it had been
earlier in the day, when it was fresh and raw, and faith
and hope seemed swept away.
CHAPTER V.
TUESDAY.
ilHAT open grassy spot in the dense shadow of
the west woods was just the place for a picnic,
and it looked very bright and pleasant that
warm June afternoon, with the rustic table so fancifully
arranged, the camp-stools scattered over the lawn, and
the bouquets of flowers depending from the trees.
Fanny Hetherton had given it her whole care, aided
and abetted by Mr. Bellamy, what time he could spare
from Lucy, who, endued with a mortal fear of insects,
seemed this day to gather scores of bugs and worms upon
her dress and hair, screaming with every worm, and
bringing Simon obediently to her aid.
" I d stay at home, I think, if I was silly enough to be
afraid of a harmless caterpillar like that," Fanny had said,
as with her own hands she took from Lucy s curls and
threw away a thousand-legged thing, the very sight of
which made poor Lucy shiver, but did not send her to
the house.
She was too much interested and too eagerly expectant
of what the afternoon would bring, and so she perched
320 TUESDAY.
herself upon the fence where nothing but ants could mo
lest her, and finished the bouquets which Fanny hung
upon the trees until the lower limbs seemed one mass
of blossoms and the air was filled with the sweet per
fume.
Lucy was bewitchingly beautiful that afternoon in her
dress of white, with her curls tied up with a blue ribbon,
and her fair arms bare nearly to the shoulders. Fanny,
whose arms were neither plump nor white, had expostu
lated with her cousin upon this style of dress, suggesting
that one as delicate as she could not fail to take a heavy
cold when the dews began to fall ; but Lucy would not
listen. Arthur Leighton had told her once that he liked
her with bare arms, and bare they should be. She was
bending every energy to please and captivate him, and a
cold was of no consequence provided she succeeded. So
like some little fairy, she danced and flitted about, making
fearful havoc with Mr. Bellamy s wits, and greatly vex
ing Fanny, who hailed with delight the arrival of Mrs.
Meredith and Anna. The latter was very pretty and
very becomingly attired in a light, airy dress of blue,
finished at the throat and wrists with an edge of soft, fine
lace. She, too, had thought of Arthur in the making of
her toilet, and it was for him that the white rose-buds
were placed in her heavy braids of hair, and fastened on
her belt. She was very sorry that she had allowed her
self to be vexed with Lucy Harcourt for her familiarity
TUESDAY. 321
with Mr. Leighton, very hopeful that he had not observed
it, and very certain now of his preference for herself*
She would be very gracious that afternoon, she thought,
and not one bit jealous of Lucy, though she called him
Arthur a hundred times.
Thus it was in the most amiable of moods that Anna
appeared upon the lawn, where she was warmly welcomed
by Lucy, who, seizing both her hands, led her away to see
their arrangements, chatting gayly all the time, and cast
ing rapid glances up the lane as if in quest of some
one.
"I m so glad you ve come. I ve thought of you so
much. Do you know it seems to me there must be some
bond of sympathy between us, or I should not like you so
well at once. I drove by the rectory early this morning,
the dearest little place, with such a lovely garden. Ar
thur was working in it, and I made him give me some
roses. See, I have one in my curls. Then, when he
brought them to the carriage, I kept him there while I
asked numberless questions about you, and heard from
him just how good you are, and how you help him in the
Sunday-school and everywhere, visiting the poor, picking
up ragged children, and doing things I never thought of
doing ; but I am not going to be so useless any longer,
and the next time you visit some of the very miserablest,
[ want you to take me with you.
"Do you ever meet Arthur there? Oh, here he
14*
322 TUESDAY.
comes," and with a bound, Lucy darted away from Anna
towards the spot where the rector stood receiving Mrs.
and Miss Hetherton s greeting.
. As Lucy had said, she had driven by the rectory, with
no earthly object but the hope of seeing the rector, and
had hurt him cruelly with her questionings of Anna, and
annoyed him a little with her anxious inquiries as to the
cause of his pallid face and sunken eyes ; but she was so
bewitchingly pretty, and so thoroughly kind withal, that
he could not be annoyed long, and he felt better for hav
ing seen her bright, coquettish face, and listened to her
childish prattle. It was a great trial for him to attend
the picnic that afternoon, but he met it bravely, and
schooled himself to appear as if there were no such things
in the world as aching hearts and cruel disappointments.
His face was very pale, but his recent headache would
account for that, and he acted his part successfully, shiv
ering a little, it is true, when Anna expressed her sorrow
that he should suffer so often from these attacks, and
suggested that he take a short vacation and go with them
to Saratoga.
" I should so much like to have you," she said, and her
clear honest eyes looked him straight in the face, as she
asked why he could not.
" What does she mean ? " the rector thought. " Is she
trying to tantalize me ? I expected her to be natural, as
her aunt laid great stress on that, but she need not overdo
TUESDAY. 323
the matter by showing me how little she cares for having
hurt me so."
Then, as a flash of pride came to his aid, he thought,
" I will at least be even with her. She shall not have
the satisfaction of guessing how much I suffer," and as
Lucy then called to him from the opposite side of the
lawn, he asked Anna to accompany him thither, just as
he would have done a week before. Once that afternoon
he found himself alone with her in a quiet part of the
woods, where the long branches of a great oak came
nearly to the ground, and formed a little bower which
looked so inviting that Anna sat down upon the gnarled
roots of the tree, and tossing her hat upon the grass, ex
claimed, (( How nice and pleasant it is in here. Come
sit down, too, while I tell you again about my class in
Sunday-school, and that poor Mrs. Hobbs across the mill-
stream. You won t forget her, will you ? I told her
you would visit her the oftener when I was gone. Do
you know she cried because I was going ? It made me
feel so badly that I doubted if it was right for me to go,"
and pulling down a handful of the oak-leaves above her
head, Anna began weaving a chaplet, while the rector stood
watching her with a puzzled expression upon his face.
She did not act as if she ever could have dictated that let
ter, but he had no suspicion of the truth, and answered
rather coldly, " I did not suppose you cared ho\v much
we might miss you at home."
824 TUESDAY.
Something in his tone made Anna look up into his
face, and her eyes immediately filled with tears, for she
knew that in some way she had displeased him.
" Then you mistake me," she replied, the tears still
glittering on her long eyelashes, and her fingers trembling
among the oaken leaves. " I do care whether I am
missed or not."
" Missed by whom? " the rector asked, and Anna im
petuously replied, " Missed by the parish poor, and by
you, too, Mr. Leighton. You don t know how often I
shall think of you, or how sorry I am that "
She did not finish the sentence, for the rector had
leaped madly at a conclusion, and was down in the grass
at her side with both her hands in his.
" Anna, O Anna," he began so pleadingly, " have you
repented of your decision ? Tell me that you Tiave and it
will make me so happy. I have been so wretched ever
since."
She thought he meant her decision about going to Sar
atoga, and she replied, " I have not repented, Mr. Leigh-
ton. Aunt Meredith thinks it s best, and so do I, though
I am sorry for you, if you really do care so much."
Anna was talking blindly, her thoughts upon one sub
ject, while the rector s were upon another, and matters
were getting somewhat mixed when, "Arthur, Arthur,
where are you ? " came ringing through the woods, and
Lucy Harcourt appeared, telling them that the refresh-
TUESDAY. 325
merits were ready. " We are only waiting for you two,
wondering where you had gone, but never dreaming that
you had stolen away to make love," she said playfully,
adding more earnestly as she saw the traces of agitation
visible in Anna s face, " and I do believe you were. If
so, I beg pardon for my intrusion."
She spoke a little sharply, and glanced inquiringly at
Mr. Leighton, who, feeling that he had virtually been
repulsed a second time by Anna, answered her, " On the
contrary, I am very glad you came, and so I am sure is
Miss Anna. I am ready to join you at the table. Come,
Anna, they are waiting," and he offered his arm to the
bewildered girl, who replied, " Not just now, please.
Leave me for a moment. I won t be long."
Very curiously Lucy looked at Anna, and then at Mr.
Leighton, who, fully appreciating the feelings of the latter,
said, by way of explanation, " You see she has not quite
finished that chaplet which I suspect is intended for you.
I think we had better leave her," and drawing Lucy s
arm under his own, he walked away, leaving Anna more
stunned and pained than she had ever been before.
Surely if love had ever spoken in voice and manner, it
had spoken when Mr. Leighton was kneeling on the grass,
holding her hands in his. " Anna, O Anna ; " how she
had thrilled at the sound of those words and waited for
what might follow next. Why had his manner changed
so suddenly, and why had he been so glad to be inter-
326 TV BSD AT.
rupted. Had he really no intention of making love to
her ; and if so, why did he rouse her hopes so suddenly
and then cruelly dash them to the ground ? Was it that
he loved Lucy best, and that the sight of her froze the
words upon his lips ?
" Let him take her, then. He is welcome for all of
me," she thought ; and as a keen pang of shame and dis
appointment swept over her, she laid her head for a mo
ment upon the grass and wept bitterly. " He must have
seen what I expected, and I care most for that," she
sobbed, resolving henceforth to guard herself at every
point, and do all that lay in her power to further Lucy s
interests. " He will thus see how little I really care,"
she said, and lifting up her head she tore in fragments
the wreath she had been making but which she could
not now place on the head of her rival.
Mr. Leighton was flirting terribly with Lucy when she
joined the party assembled around the table, and he never
once looked at Anna, though he saw that her plate was
well supplied with the best of everything, and when at
one draught she drained her glass of ice-water, he quietly
placed another within her reach, standing a little before
her and trying evidently to shield her from too critical
observation. There were two at least who were glad
when the picnic was over, and various were the private
opinions of the company with regard to the entertain
ment. Mr. Bellamy, who had been repeatedly foiled in
TUESDAY. 327
his attempts to be especially attentive to Lucy Harcourt,
pronounced the whole thing " a bore," Fanny, who had
been highly displeased with his deportment, came to the
conclusion that the enjoyment did not compensate for all
the trouble ; and while the rector thought he had never
spent a more thoroughly wretched day, and Anna would
have given worlds if she had stayed at home, Lucy de
clared that never in her life had she had so perfectly de
lightful a time, always excepting, of course, " that moon
light sail in Venice."
CHAPTER VI.
WEDNESDAY.
| HERE was a heavy shower the night succeeding
the picnic, and the morning following was as
balmy and bright as June mornings are wont to
be after a fall of rain. They were always early risers at
the farmhouse, but this morning Anna, who had slept but
little, arose earlier than usual, and leaning from the win
dow to inhale the bracing air and gather a bunch of roses
fresh with the glittering rain-drops, felt her spirits grow
lighter, and wondered at her discomposure of the pre
vious day. Particularly was she grieved that she should
have harbored a feeling of bitterness towards Lucy Har-
court, who was not to blame for having won the love she
had been foolish enough to covet.
" He knew her first," she said, " and if he has since
been pleased with me, the sight of her has won him back
to his allegiance, and it is right. She is a pretty crea
ture, but strangely unsuited, I fear, to be his wife," and
then, as she remembered Lucy s wish to go with her
tfhen next she visited the poor, she said :
" I ll take her to see the Widow Hobbs. That will
WEDNESDAY. 329
give her some idea of the duties which will devolve upon
her as a rector s wife. I can go directly there from Pros
pect Hill, where, I suppose, I must call with Aunt Mere
dith."
Anna made herself believe that in doing this she was
acting only from a magnanimous desire to fit Lucy for
her work, if, indeed, she was to be Arthur s wife, that
in taking the mantle from her own shoulders, and wrap
ping it around her rival, she was doing a most amiable
deed, when down in her inmost heart, where the tempter
had put it, there was an unrecognized wish to see how
the little dainty girl would shrink from the miserable
abode, and recoil from the touch of the dirty hands,
which were sure to be laid upon her dress if the children
were at home, and she waited impatiently to start on her
errand of mercy.
It was four o clock when, with her aunt, she arrived
at Colonel Hetherton s, and found the family assembled
upon the broad piazza, Mr. Bellamy dutifully holding
the skein of worsted from which Miss Fanny was crochet
ing, and Lucy playing with a kitten, whose movements
were scarcely more graceful than her own, as she sprang
up and ran to welcome Anna.
" Oh yes ; I shall be delighted to go with you. Pray let
us start at once," she exclaimed, when after a few mo
ments conversation Anna told where she was going.
Lucy was very gayly dressed, and Anna smiled to her
330 WEDNESDAY.
self as she imagined the startling effect the white muslin
and bright ribbons would have upon the inmates of the
shanty where they were going. There was a remon
strance from Mrs. Hetherton against her niece walking so
far, and Mrs. Meredith suggested that they should ride,
but to this Lucy objected. She meant to take Anna s
place among the poor when she was gone, she said, and
how was she ever to do it if she could not walk so little
ways as that. Anna, too, was averse to the riding, and
felt a kind of grim satisfaction when, after a time, the
little figure, which at first had skipped along with all the
airiness of a bird, began to la,g, and even pant for breath,
as the way grew steeper and the path more stony and
rough. Anna s evil spirit was in the ascendant that
afternoon, steeling her heart against Lucy s doleful ex
clamations, as one after another her delicate slippers were
torn, and the sharp thistles, of which the path was full,
penetrated to her soft flesh. Straight and unbending as
a young Indian, Anna walked on, shutting her ears
against the sighs of weariness which reached them from
time to time. But when there came a half-sobbing cry of
actual pain, she stopped suddenly and turned towards
Lucy, whose breath came gaspingly, and whose cheeks
were almost purple with the exertions she had made.
" I cannot go any farther until I rest," she said, sink
ing down exhausted upon a large flat rock beneath a wal
nut-tree.
WEDNESDAY. 331
Touched with pity at the sight of the heated face, from
which the sweat was dripping, Anna too sat down beside
her, and laying the curly head in her lap, she hated her
self cordially, as Lucy said :
" You ve walked so fast I could not keep up. You do
not know, perhaps, how weak I am, and how little it
takes to tire me. They say my heart is diseased, and au
unusual excitement might kill me."
" No, oh no ! " Anna answered with a shudder, as she
thought of what might have been the result of her rash
ness, and then she smoothed the wet hair, which, dried by
the warm sunbeams, coiled itself up in golden masses,
which her fingers softly threaded.
" I did not know it until that time in Venice when
Arthur talked to me so good, trying to make me feel that
it was not hard to die, even if I was so young and the
world so full of beauty," Lucy went on, her voice sound
ing very low, and her bright shoulder-knots of ribbon
trembling with the rapid beating of her heart. " When
he was talking to me I could be almost willing to die, but
the moment he was gone the doubts and fears came back,
and death was terrible again. I was always better with
Arthur. Everybody is, and I think your seeing so much
of him is one reason why you are so good."
" No, no, I am not good," and Anna s hands pressed
hard upon tho girlish head lying in her lap. " I am
wicked beyond what you can guess. I led you this
332 WEDNESDA Y.
rough way when I might have chosen a smooth though
longer road, and walked so fast on purpose to worry you."
" To worry me. Why should you wish to do that ? "
and lifting up her head, Lucy looked wonderingly at the
conscience-stricken Anna, who could not confess to the
jealousy, but who in all other respects answered truthfully :
" I think an evil spirit possessed me for a time, and I
wanted to show you that it was not so nice to visit the
poor as you seemed to think, but I am sorry, oh so sorry,
and you ll forgive me, won t you ? "
A loving kiss was pressed upon her lips and a warm
cheek was laid against her own, as Lucy said, " Of course
I ll forgive you, though I do not quite understand why
you should wish to discourage me or tease me either,
when I liked you so much from the first moment I heard
your voice, and saw you in the choir. You don t dislike
me, do you ? "
" No, oh no. I love you very dearly," Anna replied,
her tears falling like rain upon the slight form she hugged
so passionately to her, and which she would willingly
have borne in her arms the remainder of the way, as a
kind of penance for her past misdeeds ; but Lucy was
much better, and so the two, between whom there was
now a bond of love which nothing could sever, went on
together to the low dismal house where the Widow Hobbs
lived.
The gate was off the hinges, and Lucy s muslin was
333
torn upon a nail as she passed through, while the long
fringe of her fleecy shawl was caught in the tall tufts of
thistle growing by the path. In a muddy pool of water,
a few rods from the house, a flock of ducks were swim
ming, pelted occasionally by the group of dirty, ragged
children playing on the grass, and who, at sight of the
strangers and the basket Anna carried, sprang up like a
flock of pigeons, and came trooping towards her. It was
not the sweet, pastoral scene which Lucy had pictured to
herself, with Arthur for the background, and her ardor
was greatly dampened even before the threshold was
crossed, and she stood in the low, close room where the
sick woman lay, her eyes unnaturally bright, and turned
wistfully upon them as she entered. There were ashes
upon the hearth and ashes upon the floor, a hair-brush
upon the table and an empty plate upon the chair, with
swarms of flies sipping the few drops of molasses and
feeding upon the crumbs of bread left there by the elfish-
looking child now in the bed beside its mother. There
was nothing but poverty, squalid, disgusting poverty,
visible everywhere, and Lucy grew sick and faint at the,
to her, unusual sight.
" They have not lived here long. We only found them
three weeks ago ; they will look better by and by," Anna
whispered, feeling that some apology was necessary for the
destitution and filth visible everywhere.
Daintily removing the plate to the table, and carefully
334 WEDNESDAY.
tucking up her skirts, Lucy sat down upon the wooden
chair and looked dubiously on while Anna made the
sick woman more tidy in appearance, and then fed her
from the basket of provisions which Grandma Humphreys
had sent.
" I never could do that," Lucy thought, as shoving off
the little dirty hand fingering her shoulder-knots she
watched Anna washing the poor woman s face, and bend
ing over her pillow as unhesitatingly as if it had been
covered with ruffled linen like those at Prospect Hill, in
stead of the coarse soiled rag which hardly deserved the
name of pillow-case. " No, I never could do that," and
the possible life with Arthur which the maiden had more
than once imagined began to look very dreary, when sud
denly a shadow darkened the door, and Lucy knew before
she turned her head that the rector was standing at her
back, and the blood tingled through her veins with a de
licious feeling ; as, laying both his hands upon her shoul
ders, and bending over her so that she felt his breath upon
her brow, he said :
" What, my lady Lucy here ? I hardly expected to
find two ministering angels, though I was almost sure of
one," and his eye rested on Anna with a wistful look of
tenderness, which neither she nor Lucy saw.
" Then you knew she was coming," Lucy said, an un
easy thought flashing across her mind as she remembered
the picnic, and the scene she had stumbled upon.
WEDNESDAY. 335
But Arthur s reply, " I did not know she was coming ;
I only knew it was like her," reassured her for a time,
making her resolve to emulate the virtues which Arthur
seemed to prize so highly. What a difference his pres
ence made in that wretched room. She did not mind
the poverty now, or care if her dress was stained with the
molasses left in the chair, and the inquisitive child with
tattered gown and bare, brown legs was welcome to ex
amine and admire the bright plaid ribbons as much as
she chose.
Lucy had no thought for anything but Arthur, and the
subdued expression of his face, as kneeling by the sick
woman s bedside he said the prayers she had hungered
for more than for the contents of Anna s basket, which
were now purloined by the children crouched upon the
hearth and fighting over the last bit of gingerbread.
lt Hush-sh, little one," and Lucy s hand rested on the
head of the principal belligerent, who, awed by the beauty
of iter face and the authoritative tone of her voice, kept
quiet till the prayer was over and Arthur had risen from
his knees.
" Thank you, Lucy ; I think I must constitute you my
deaconess when Miss Ruthven is gone. Your very
presence has a subduing effect upon the little savages. I
never knew them so quiet before so long a time," Arthur
said to Lucy in a low tone, which, low as it was, reached
336 WEDNESDA T.
Anna s ear, but brcmght no pang of jealousy or sharp r*>
gret for what she felt was lost forever.
She was giving Lucy to Arthur Leighton, resolving
that by every means in her power she would further her
rival s cause, and the hot tears which dropped so fast
upon Mrs. Hobbs s pillow while Arthur said the prayer
were but the baptism of that vow, and not, as Lucy
thought, because she felt so sorry for the suffering woman
who had brought so much comfort to her.
<{ God bless you wherever you go," she said, " and if
there is any great good which you desire, may He bring
it to pass."
" He never will, no, never," was the sad response in
Anna s heart, as she joined the clergyman and Lucy, who
were standing outside the door, the former pointing to
the ruined slippers, and asking her how she ever expected
to walk home in such dilapidated things.
"I shall certainly have to carry you," he said, "or
your blistered feet will evermore be thrust forward as a
reason why you cannot be my deaconess."
He seemed to be in unusual spirits that afternoon, and
the party went gayly on, Anna keeping a watchful care
over Lucy, picking out the smoothest places, and passing
her arm round her waist as they were going up a hill.
" I think it would be better if you both leaned on me,"
the rector said, offering each an arm, and apologizing for
not having thought to do so before.
WEDNESDAY. 337
" I do not need it, thank you, but Miss Harcourt does.
I fear she is very tired," said Anna, pointing to Lucy s
face, which was so white and ghastly and so like the face
seen once before in Venice, that without another word,
Arthur took the tired girl in his strong arms and carried
her safely to the summit of the hill.
" Please put me down ; I can walk now," Lucy
pleaded ; but Arthur felt the rapid beatings of her heart,
and kept her in his arms until they reached Prospect
Hill, were Mrs. Meredith was anxiously awaiting their
return, her brow clouding with distrust when she saw
Mr. Leighton, for she was constantly fearing lest her
guilty secret should be exposed.
" I ll leave Hanover this very week, and remove her
from danger," she thought, as she rose to say good
night.
" Just wait a minute, please. There s something I
want to say to Miss Ruthven," Lucy cried, and leading
Anna to her own room, she knelt down by her side, and
looking up in her face, began :
" There s one question which I wish to ask, and you
must answer me truly. It is rude and inquisitive, per
haps, but, tell me, has Arthur ever ever
Anna guessed what was coming, and with a sob, which
Lucy thought was a long-drawn breath, she kissed the
pretty, parted lips, and answered :
" No, darling, Arthur never did, and never will, but
15
338 WEDNESDAY.
some time he will ask you to be his wife. I can see it
coming so plain."
Poor Anna ! her heart gave one great throb as she
said this, and then lay like a dead weight in her bosom,
while with sparkling eyes and blushing cheeks, Lucy ex
claimed :
" I am so glad, so glad. I have only known you
since Sunday, but you seem like an old friend, and you
won t mind my telling you that ever since I first met
Arthur among the Alps, I have lived in a kind of ideal
world, of which he was the centre. I am an orphan,
you know, and an heiress, too. There is half a million,
they say ; and Uncle Hetherton has charge of it. Now,
will you believe me, when I say that I would give every
dollar of this for Arthur s love if I could not have it
without? "
"I do believe you," Anna replied, inexpressibly glad
that the gathering darkness hid her white face from view
as the childlike, unsuspecting girl went on : "The
world, I know, would say that a poor clergyman was not
a good match for mo, but I do not care for that. Cousin
Fanny favors it, I am sure, and Uncle Hetherton would
not oppose me when he saw I was in earnest. Once the
world, which is a very meddlesome thing, picked out
Thornton Hastings, of New York, for me ; but my ! he
was too proud and lofty even to talk to me much, and I
would not speak to him after I heard of his saying that
WEDNESDAY. 339
f I "was a pretty little plaything, but far too frivolous for
a sensible man to make his wife. Oh, wasn t I angry
though, and don t I liopo that when he gets a wife she
will be exactly such a frivolous thing as I am."
Even through the darkness Anna could see the blue
eyes flash, and the delicate nostrils dilate as Lucy gave
vent to her wrath against the luckless Thornton Hast
ings.
" You will meet him at Saratoga. He is always there
in the summer, but don t you speak to him, the hateful.
He ll be calling you frivolous next."
An amused smile flitted across Anna s face as she
asked, " But won t you too be at Saratoga ? I supposed
you were all going there."
" Cela depend" Lucy replied. " I would so rrmch
rather stay here, the dressing, and dancing, and flirting
tire me so, and then you know what Arthur said about
taking me for his deaconess in your place."
There was a call just then from the hall below. Mrs.
Meredith was getting impatient of the delay, and with a
good-by kiss, Anna went down the stairs, and stood out
upon the piazza, where her aunt was waiting. Mr.
Leighton had accepted Fanny s invitation to stay to tea,
and ho handed the ladies to their carriage, lingering a
moment while ho said his parting words, for he was
going out of town to-morrow, and when he returned
Anna would be gone.
340 WEDNESDAY.
" You will think of us sometimes," he said, still hold
ing Anna s hand. " St. Mark s will be lonely without
you. God bless you and bring you safely back."
There was a pressure of the hand, a lifting of Arthur s
hat, and then the carriage moved away ; but Anna, look
ing back, saw Arthur standing by Lucy s side, fastening
a rose-bud in her hair, and at that sight the gleam of
hope which for an instant had crept into her heart
passed away with a sigh.
CHAPTER VII.
AT NEWPORT.
f|OVED by a strange impulse, Thornton Hastings
took himself and his fast bays to Newport in
stead of Saratoga, and thither, the first week
in August, came Mrs. Meredith, with eight large trunks,
her niece, and her niece s wardrobe, which had cost tho
pretty sum of eighteen hundred dollars.
Mrs. Meredith was not naturally lavish of her money,
except where her own interests were concerned, as they
v/ere in Anna s case. Conscious of having come between
her niece and the man she loved, she determined that in
the procuring of a substitute for this man, no advantages
which dress could afford should be lacking. Besides,
Thornton Hastings was a perfect connoisseur in every
thing pertaining to a lady s toilet, and it was with him
and his preference before her mind that Mrs. Meredith
opened her purse so widely and bought so extensively.
There were sun hats and round hats, and hats ct la cava-
. Her, there were bonnets and veils, and dresses, and
shawls of every color and kind, with the lesser matters
of sashes, and gloves, and slippers, and fans, the whole
34:2 AT NEWPORT
making an array such as Anna had never seen be
fore, and from which she had at first shrank back ap
palled and dismayed. But she was not now quite so
much of a novice as when she first reached New York,
the Saturday following the picnic at Prospect Hill. She
had passed successfully and safely through the hands of
mantua-makers, milliners, and hair-dressers since then.
She had laid aside every article brought from home.
She wore her hair in puffs and waterfalls, and her dresses
in the latest mode. She had seen the fashionable world
as represented at Saratoga, and sickening at the sight,
had gladly acquiesced iu her aunt s proposal to go on to
Newport, where the air was purer, and the hotels not so
densely packed. She had been called a beauty and a
belle, but her heart was longing still for the leafy woods
and fresh, green fields of Hanover ; and Newport, she
fancied, would be more like the country than sultry,
crowded Saratoga, and never since leaving home had she
looked so bright and pretty as the evening after her ar
rival at the Ocean House, when, invigorated by the bath
she had taken in the morning, and gladdened by sight of
the glorious sea and the soothing tones it murmured in
her ear, she came down to the parlor, clad in simple
white, with only a bunch of violets in her hair, and no
other ornament than the handsome pearls her aunt had
given to her. Standing at the open window, with the
drapery of the lace curtain sweeping gracefully behind
AT NEWPORT. 34.3
her, she did not look much like the Anna who led the
choir in Hanover and visited the Widow Hobbs, nor yet
much like the picture which Thornton Hastings had
formed of the girl who he knew was there for his in
spection. He had been absent the entire day, and had
not seen Mrs. Meredith, when she arrived early in the
morning, but he found her card in his room, and a smile
curled his lip as he said :
(l And so I have not escaped her."
Thornton Hastings had proved a most treacherous
knight, and overthrown his general s plans entirely. Ar
thur s letter had affected him strangely, for he readily
guessed how deeply wounded his sensitive friend had
been by Anna Ruthven s refusal, while added to this was
a fear lest Anna had been influenced by a thought of
himself, and what might possibly result from an acquaint
ance. Thornton Hastings had been flattered and angled
for until he had grown somewhat vain, and it did not
strike him as at all improbable that the unsophisticated
Anna should have designs upon him.
" But I won t give her a chance," he said, when he
finished Arthur s letter. " I thought once I might like
her, but I shan t, and I ll be revenged on her for refus
ing the best man that ever breathed. I ll go to Newport
instead of Saratoga, and so be clear of the entire Mere
dith clique, the Hethertons, the little Harcourt, and
all."
344 AT NEWPORT.
This, then, was the secret of his being at the Ocean
House. He was keeping away from Anna Ruthven, who
never had heard of him but once, and that from Lucy
Harcourt. After that scene in the Glen, where Anna
had exclaimed against intriguing mothers and their bold,
shame-faced daughters, Mrs. Meredith had been too wise
a manccuvrer to mention Thornton Hastings, so that
Anna was wholly ignorant of his presence at Newport, ,
and looked up in unfeigned surprise at the tall, elegant
roan whom her aunt presented as Mr. Hastings. With
all Thornton s affected indifference, there was still a cu
riosity to see the girl who could say " no " to Arthur
Lcighton, and he did not wait long after receiving Mrs.
Meredith s card before going down to find her.
" That s the girl, I ll lay a wager," he thought of a
high-colored, showily dressed hoyden, who was whirling
around the room with Ned Peters, from Boston, and
whoso corn-colored dress swept against his boots as he
entered the parlor.
How, then, was he disappointed in the apparition Mrs.
Meredith presented as " my niece," the modest, self pos
sessed young girl, whose cheeks grew not a whit the
redder, and whose pulse did not quicken at the sight of
him, though a gleam of something like curiosity shone
in the brown eyes which scanned him so quietly. She
was thinking of Lucy, and her injunction " not to speak
to the hateful if she saw him ; " but she did speak to
AT NEWPORT. 345
him, and Mrs. Meredith fanned herself complacently as
she saw how fast they became acquainted.
" You don t dance," Mr. Hastings said, as she declined
an invitation from Ned Peters, whom she had met at
Saratoga. " I am glad, for you will perhaps walk with
me outside upon the piazza. You won t take cold, I
think," and he glanced thoughtfully at the white neck
and shoulders gleaming beneath the gauzy muslin.
Mrs. Meredith was in rhapsodies, and sat a full hour
with the tiresome dowagers around her, while up and
down the broad piazza Thornton Hastings walked with
Anna, talking to her as he seldom talked to women, and
feeling greatly surprised to find that what he said was
fully appreciated and understood. That he was pleased
with her he could not deny to himself, as he sat alone in
his room that night, feeling more and more how keenly
Arthur Leighton must have felt her refusal.
" But why did she refuse him ? " he wished he knew,
and ere he slept he resolved to study Anna Ruthven
closely, and ascertain, if possible, the motive which
prompted her to discard a man like Arthur Leighton.
The next day brought the Hetherton party, all but
Lucy Harcourt, who, Fanny laughingly said, was just
now suffering from clergyman on the brain, and, as a cer
tain cure for the disease, had turned my Lady Bountiful,
and was playing the pretty patroness to all Mr. Leigh-
ton s parishioners, especially a Widow Hobbs, whom she
15*
34:6 AT NEWPORT.
had actually taken to ride in the carriage, and to whose
ragged children she had sent a bundle of cast-off party
dresses ; and the tears ran down Fanny s cheeks as she
described the appearance of the elder llobbs, who came
to church with a soiled pink silk skirt, her black, tattered
petticoat hanging down below, and one of Lucy s opera
hoods upon her head.
" And the clergyman on her brain? Does he appreci
ate his situation ? I have an interest there. He is an
old friend of mine," Thornton Hastings asked.
He had been an amused listener to Fanny s gay badi
nage, laughing merrily at the idea of Lucy s taking an old
woman out to air, and clothing her children in party
dresses. His opinion of Lucy, as she had said, was that
she was a pretty but frivolous play tiling, and it showed
upon his face as he asked the question he did, watching
Anna furtively as Fanny replied :
" Oh yes, he is certainly smitten, and I must say I
never saw Lucy so thoroughly in earnest. Why, she
really seems to enjoy travelling all over Christendom to
find the hovels and huts, though she is mortally afraid
of the small-pox, and always carries with her a bit of
chloride of lime as a disinfecting agent. I am sure she
ought to win the parson. And so you know him, do
you ? "
" Yes ; we were in college together, and I esteem him
AT NEWPORT. 347
so highly that, had I a sister, there is no roan living to
whom I would so readily give her as to him."
He was looking now at Anna, whose face was very
pale, and who pressed a rose she held so tightly that the
sharp thorns pierced her flesh, and a drop of blood
stained the whiteness of her hand.
" See, you have hurt yourself," Mr. Hastings said.
" Come to the water-pitcher and wash the stain away."
She went with him mechanically, and let him hold
her hand in his while he wiped off the blood with
his own handkerchief, treating her with a tenderness for
which he could hardly account. He pitied her, and sus
pected she had repented of her rashness, and because he
pitied her he asked her to ride with him that day after
the fast bays, of which he had written to Arthur. Many
admiring eyes were cast after them as they drove away,
and Mrs. Hetherton whispered softly to Mrs. Meredith :
" A match in progress, I see. You have done well for
your charming niece."
And yet matrimony, as concerned himself, was very
far from Thornton Hastings thoughts that afternoon,
when, because he saw that it pleased Anna to have him
do so, he talked to her of Arthur, hoping, in his un
selfish heart, that what he said in his praise might influ
ence her to reconsider her decision and give him a differ
ent answer. This was the second day of Thornton
Hastings acquaintance with Anna Ruthven, but as time
348 AT NEWPORT.
went on, bringing the usual routine of life at Newport,
the drives, the rides, the pleasant piazza talks, and the
quiet moonlight rambles, when Anna was always his com
panion, Thornton Hastings came to feel an unwillingness
to surrender even to Arthur Leighton the beautiful girl
who pleased him better than any one he had known.
Mrs. Meredith s plans were working well, and so,
though the autumn days had come, and one after another
the devotees of fashion were dropping off, she lingered
on, and Thornton Hastings still rode and walked with
Anna Iluthven, until there came a night when they wan
dered farther than usual from the hotel, and sat down to
gether on a height of land which overlooked the placid
waters, where the moonlight lay softly sleeping. It was
a most lovely night, and for awhile they listened in
silence to the music of the sea, and then talked of tho
breakiug-up which would come in a few days, when the
hotel was to be closed, and wondered if next year they
would come again to the old haunts and find them un
changed.
There was witchery in the hour, and Thornton felt its
spell, speaking out at last, and asking Anna if she would
be his wife. He would shield her so tenderly, he said,
protecting her from every care, and making her as happy
as love and money could make her. Then he told her of his
home in the far-ofT city, which needed only her presence
to make it a paradise,. and then he waited for her answer,
AT NEWPORT. 340
watching anxiously the limp, white hands, which, when
he first began to talk, had fallen helplessly upon her lap,
and then had crept up to her face, which was turned
away from him, so that he could not see its expression,
or guess at the struggle going on in Anna s mind. She
was not wholly surprised, for she could not mistake the
nature of the interest which, for the last two weeks,
Thornton Hastings had manifested in her. But now
that the moment had come, it seemed to her that she
had never expected it, and she sat silent for a time, dread
ing so much to speak the words which she knew would
inflict pain on one whom she respected so highly, but
whom she could not marry.
" Don t you like me, Anna ? " Thornton asked at last,
his voice very low and tender, as he bent over her and
tried to take her hand.
" Yes, very much," she answered ; and emboldened by
her reply, Thornton lifted up her head, and was about to
kiss her forehead, when she started away from him, ex
claiming :
" No, Mr. Hastings. You must not do that. I cannot
be your wife. It hurts me to tell you so, for I believe
you are sincere in your proposal ; but it can never be.
Forgive me, and let us both forget this wretched summer."
" It has not been wretched to me. It has been a very
happy summer, since I knew yoxi at least," Mr. Hastings
said, and then he asked again that she should reconsider
350 AT NEWPORT.
her decision. lie could not take it as her final one. He
Lad loved her too much, had thought too much of mak
ing her his own, to give her up so easily, he said, urging
so many reasons why she should think again, that Anna
said to him, at last :
"If you would rather have it so, I will wait a month,
but you must not hope that my answer will be different
then from what it is to-night. I want your friendship,
though, the same as if this had never happened. I like
you, because you have been kind to me, and made my
stay in Newport so much pleasanter than I thought it
could be. You have not talked to me like other men.
You have treated me as if I at least had common-sense.
I thank you for that ; and I like you because
She did not finish the sentence, for she could not say
Because you are Arthur s friend." That would have
betrayed the miserable secret tugging at her heart, and
prompting her to refuse Thornton Hastings, who had also
thought of Arthur Leigh ton, wondering if it were thus
that she rejected him, and if in the background there
was another love standing between her and the two men
to win whom many a woman would almost have given
her right hand. To say that Thornton was not piqued
at her refusal would be false. He had not expected it,
accustomed as he was to adulation ; but he tried to put that
feeling down, and his manner was even more kind and con
siderate than ever as he walked back to the hotel, where
AT NEWPORT. 351
Mrs. Meredith was waiting for them, her practised eye
detecting at once that something was amiss. Thornton
Hastings knew Mrs. Meredith thoroughly, and, wishing
to shield Anna from her displeasure, he preferred stating
the facts himself to having them wrung from the pale,
agitated girl, who, bidding him good-night, went quickly
to her room ; so, when she was gone, and he stood for a
moment alone with Mrs. Meredith, he said :
" I have proposed to your niece, but she cannot answer
me now. She wishes for a month s probation, which I
have granted, and I ask that she shall not be persecuted
about the matter. I must have an unbiassed answer."
He bowed politely and walked away, while Mrs. Mere
dith almost trod on air as she climbed the stairs and
sought her niece s chamber. Over the intervieAv which
ensued that night we pass silently, and come to the next
morning, when Anna sat alone on the piazza at the rear
of the hotel, watching the playful gambols of some chil
dren on the grass, and wondering if she ever could con
scientiously say yes to Thornton Hastings suit. He was
coming towards her now, lifting his hat politely, and ask
ing what she would give for news from home.
" I found this on my table," he said, holding up a
dainty little missive, on the corner of which was written
" In haste," as if its contents were of the utmost im
portance. " The boy must have made a mistake, or else
he thought it well to begin at once bringing your letters
352 AT NEWPORT.
to me," he continued with a sinile, as he handed Anna
the letter from Lucy Harcourt. "I have one, too, from
Arthur, which I will read while you are devouring yours,
and then, perhaps, you will take a little ride. The Sep
tember air is very bracing this morning," he said, walk
ing away to the far end of the piazza while Anna broke
the seal of the envelope, hesitating a moment ere taking
the letter from it, and trembling as if she guessed what
it contained.
There was a quivering of the eyelids, a paling of the
lips as she glanced at the first few lines, then with the
low moaning cry, " No, no, oh no, not that," she fell
upon her face.
To lift her in his arms and carry her to her room was
the work of an instant, and then, leaving her to Mrs.
Meredith s care, Thornton Hustings went back to finish
Arthur s letter, which might or might not throw light
upon the fainting-fit.
" Dear Thornton," Arthur wrote, " you will be sur
prised, no doubt, to hear that your old college chum is at
last engaged ; but not to one of the fifty lambs about
whom you once jocosely wrote. The shepherd has wan
dered from his flock, and is about to take into his bosom
a little stray ewe-lamb, Lucy Harcourt by name "
"The deuce he is," was Thornton s ejaculation, and
then he read on:
" She is an acquaintance of yours, I believe, so I need
AT NEWPORT. 353
not describe her, except to say tliat she is somewhat
changed from the gay butterfly of fashion sheriised to be,
and in time will make as demure a little Quakeress as one
could wish to see. She visits constantly among my poor,
who love her almost as well as they once loved Anna
Euthven.
" Don t ask me, Thorne, in your blunt, straightforward
manner if I have so soon forgotten Anna. That is a
matter with which you ve nothing to do. Let it suffice
that I am engaged to another, and mean, to make a kind
and faithful husband to her. Lucy would have suited
you better, perhaps, than she does me ; that is, the world
would think so, but the world does not always know, and
if I am satisfied, surely it ought to be.
" Yours truly,
"A. LEICIITON."
" Engaged to Lucy Harcourt! I never could have be
lieved it. He s right in saying that she is far more suit
able for me than him," Thornton exclaimed, dashing aside
the letter and feeling conscious of a pang as he remem
bered the bright airy little beauty in whom he had oiice
been strongly interested, even if he did call her frivolous
and ridicule her childish ways.
She was frivolous, too much so by far to be a clergy
man s wife, and for a full half-hour Thornton paced up
and down the room, meditating on Arthur s choice and
wondering how upon earth it ever happened.
CHAPTER VIII.
SIIOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
]UCY had insisted tliat she did not care to go to
Saratoga. She preferred remaining in Hanover,
where it was cool and quiet, and where she
would not have to dress three times a day and dance
every night until twelve. She was beginning to find that
there was something to live for besides consulting one s
own pleasure, and she meant to do good the rest of her
life, she said, assuming such a sober, nun-like air, that
no one who saw her could fail to laugh, it was so at va
riance with her entire nature. But Lucy was in earnest.
Hanover had a greater attraction for her than all tho
watering-places in the world, and she was very grateful
when Fanny threw her influence on her side and so
turned the scale in her favor.
Fanny was glad to leave her dangei ous cousin at home,
especially after Mr. Bellamy decided to join their party
at Saratoga ; and as she carried great weight with both
her parents it was finally decided to let Lucy remain at
Prospect Hill in peace, and one morning in July she saw
the family depart without a single feeling of regret that
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 355
she was not of their number. Slie r Jiad far too much on
her hands to spend her time in regretting anything :
there was the parish school to visit, and a class of chil
dren to hear, children who were no longer ragged, for
Lucy s money had been expended till even Arthur had
remonstrated with her, and read her a long lecture on the
subject of misapplied charity. Then there was Widow
Hobbs waiting for the jelly which Lucy had promised,
and for the chapter which Lucy now read to her, sitting
where she could watch the road and see just who turned
the corner, her voice always sounding a little more seri
ous and good when the footsteps belonged to Arthur
Leighton, and her eyes always glancing at the bit of a
cracked mirror on the wall, to see that her dress and
hair and ribbons were right before Arthur came in. It
was a very pretty sight to see her thus and hear her as
she read to the poor, whose surroundings she had so
greatly improved ; and Arthur always smiled gratefully
upon her, and then walked back with her to Prospect
Hill, where he lingered while she played or talked to
him, or brought the luscious fruits with which the garden
abounded.
This was Lucy s life, which she preferred to Saratoga,
and they left her to enjoy it, somewhat to Arthur s dis
comfiture, for, much as he valued her society, he would
rather she had gone where the Hethertons did, foi he could
not be insensible to the remarks which were being made by
356 SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
the curious villagers, who watched this new flirtation, as
they called it, and wondered if their minister had forgotten
Anna Ruthven. He had not forgotten her, and many a
time was her loved name upon his lips and a thought of
her in his heart, while he never returned from an inter
view with Lucy that he did not contrast the two, and
sigh for the olden time when Anna was his coworker in
stead of pretty Lucy Harcourt. And yet there was about
the latter a powerful fascination which he found it hard
to resist. It rested him just to look at her, she was so
fresh, so bright, and so beautiful ; and then she flattered
his self-love by the unbounded deference she paid to his
opinions, studying all his tastes and bringing her will in
to perfect subjection to his, until she could scarcely be
said to have a thought or feeling which was not a reflec
tion of his own. And so the flirtation, which at first had
been a one-sided affair, began to assume a more serious
form, and the rector went oftener to Prospect Hill, while
the Hcthertou carriage stood daily at the gate of the par
sonage, and people talked and gossiped, until Captain
Humphreys, Anna s grandfather, concluded it was his duty
as senior warden of St. Mark s, to talk with the young
rector and know " what his intentions were."
" You have none ? " he said, fixing his mild eyes re
proachfully upon his clergyman, who recoiled a little be
neath the gaze. " Then, if you have no intentions, my
advice to you is that you quit it and let the gal alone, or
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 357
you ll ruin her, if sue ain t spoilt already, as some of the
women folks say she is. It don t do no gal any good to
have a chap, and specially a minister, gallivantin after
her, as I must say you ve been after this one for the last
few weeks. She s a pretty little creeter, and I don t
blame you for liking her. It makes my old blood stir
faster when she comes purring around me, with her soft
ways and winsome face, and so I don t wonder at you, but
when you say you ve no intentions, I blame you greatly.
You or to have. Excuse my plainness ; I m an old
man, and I like my minister, and don t want him to go
wrong ; and then I feel for her, left all alone by all her
folks ; more s the shame to them, and rnore s the harm to
you, to tangle up her affections as you are doing if you
are not in earnest ; and so I speak for her just as I should
want some one to speak for Anna ! "
The old man s voice trembled a little here, for it had
been a wish of his that Anna should occupy the parson
age, and he had at first felt a little resentment against the
gay young creature who seemed to have supplanted her,
but he was over that now, and in all honesty of heart he
spoke both for Lucy s interest and that of his clergyman.
And Arthur listened to him respectfully, feeling when he
was gone that he merited the rebuke, that he had not
been guiltless in the matter, that if he did not mean to
marry Lucy Harcourt he should let her alone. And he
would, he said, he would not go to Prospect Hill again
358 SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
for two whole weeks, nor visit at the cottages where he
was sure to find her ; he would keep himself at home ; and
he did, and shut himself up among his books, not even
going to make a pastoral call on Lucy when he heard
that she was sick. And so Lucy came to him, looking
dangerously charming in her blue riding-habit with the
white feather streaming from her hat. Very prettily she
pouted, too, as she chicled him for his neglect, and asked
why he had not been to see her nor anybody ; there
was the Widow Hobbs, and Mrs. Briggs, and those miser
able Donelsons, whom he had not been near for a fort
night.
" What is the reason ? " she asked, beating her foot
upon the carpet and tapping the end of her riding- whip
upon the sermon he was writing. " Are you displeased
with me, Arthur," she continued, her eyes filling with
tears as she saw the expression of his face. " Have I
done anything wrong ; I am so sorry if I have."
Her voice had in it the grieved tones of a little child,
and her eyes were very bright with the tears quivering
on her long eyelashes. Leaning back in his chair, with
his hands clasped behind his head, a position he usually
assumed when puzzled and perplexed, the rector looked
at her a moment before he spoke. He could not define
to himself the nature of the interest he took in Lucy
Harcourt. He admired her greatly, and the self-denials
and generous exertions she had made to be of use to him
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 359
since Anna went away, had touched a tender chord and
made her seem very near to him. Habit with him was
everything, and the past two weeks isolation had shown
him how necessary she had become to him. She did not
satisfy his higher wants as Anna Ruthven had done. No
one could ever do that, but she amused and soothed and
rested him, and made his duties lighter by taking half of
them upon herself. That she was more attached to him
than he could wish he greatly feared, for since Captain
Humphreys visit he had seen matters differently from
what he saw them before, and had unsparingly ques
tioned himself as to how far he would be answerable for
her future weal or woe.
" Guilty, verily I am guilty in leading her on if I
meant nothing by it," he had written against himself,
pausing in his sermon to write it just as Lucy came in,
appealing to him to know why he had neglected her so
long.
She was very beautiful this morning, and Arthur felt
his heart beat rapidly as he looked at her, and thought
any man who had not known Anna Ruthven would
be glad to gather that bright creature in his arms and
know she was his own. One long, long sigh to the mem-
oiy of all he had hoped for once, one bitter pang as
he remembered Anna and that twilight hour in the
church, and then he made a mad plunge in the dark and
said :
360 SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
<l Lucy, do you know people are beginning to talk
about my seeing you so much ? "
" Well, let them talk ; who cares? " Lucy replied, with
a good deal of asperity of manner for her, for that very
morning the house-keeper at Prospect Hill had ventured
to remonstrate with her for " running after the parson."
" Pray where is the wrong ? What harm can come of
it?"
" None, perhaps," Arthur replied, " if one could
keep their affections under control. But if either of us
should learn to love the other very much and the love
was not reciprocated, harm would surely come of that.
At least that was the view Captain Humphreys took of
the matter when he was speaking to me about it."
There were red spots on Lucy s face, but her lips were
very white and the buttons on her riding-dress rose and
fell rapidly with the beating of her heart as she looked
steadily at Arthur. Was he going to send her from him,
back to the insipid life she had lived before she knew
him ? It was too terrible to believe, and the great tears
rolled slowly down her cheeks. Then as a flash of pride
came to her aid, she dashed them away and said to him
haughtily :
" And so for fear I shall fall in love with you, you are
sacrificing both comfort and freedom, and shutting your-
elf up with your books and studies to the neglect of
Dther duties. But it need be so no longer. The neces-
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 361
sity for it, if it existed once, certainly does not now. I
will not be in your way ; forgive me that I ever have
been."
Lucy s voice began to tremble as she gathered up her
riding-habit and turned to find her gauntlets. One of
them had dropped upon the floor between the table and
the rector, and as she stooped to reach it her curls almost
swept the young man s lap.
" Let me get it for you," he said, hastily pushing back
his chair and awkwardly entangling his foot in her long
sweeping dress, so that when she arose she stumbled back
ward and would have fallen, but for the arm he quickly
passed around her.
Something in the touch of that quivering form com
pleted the work of temptation, and he held it for an in-
stant, when she said to him pettishly :
" Please let me go, sir."
" No, Lucy, I can t let you go. I want you to stay
with me."
Instantly the drooping head was uplifted, and Lucy s
eyes looked into his with such a wistful, pleading, won
dering look that Arthur saw or thought he saw his duty
plain, and gently touching his lips to the brow glistening
so white within their reach, he continued :
" There is a way to stop the gossip and make it right
for me to see you. Promise to be my wife, and not even
Captain Humphreys can say aught against it."
16
362 SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
Arthur s voice trembled now, for the mention of Cap
tain Humphreys had brought a thought of Anna, whose
eyes seemed for an instant to look reproachfully upon
that wooing. But he had gone too far to retract ; he had
only to wait for Lucy s answer. There was no deception
about her ; hers was a nature as clear as crystal, and with
a gush of glad tears she promised to be the rector s wife ;
and hiding her face on his bosom, told him, brokenly,
how unworthy she was of him ; how foolish, and how un-
suited to the place, but promising to do the best she
could not to bring him into disgrace on account of her
shortcomings.
" With the knowledge that you love me I can do any
thing," she said, and her white hand crept slowly into the
cold, clammy one which lay so listlessly on Arthur s
lap.
He was already repenting, for he felt that it was sin
to take that warm, trusting, loving heart in exchange for
the cold, half lifeless one he should render in return, and
in which scarcely a pulse of joy was beating, even though
he held his promised wife ; and she was fair and beautiful
as ever promised wife could be.
"But I can make her happy, and I will," he thought,
pressing the warm fingers which quivered to his touch.
But he did not kiss her again ; he could not for the
eyes, which still seemed looking at him and asking what
he did. There was a strange spell about those phantom
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 363
eyes, and they made him say to Lucy, who was now sit
ting demurely at his side :
f( I could not clear my conscience if I did not confess
that you are not the first woman whom I have asked to
be my wife."
There was a start, and Lucy s face was pale as ashes,
while her hand went quickly to her side, where the heart
beats were visible, warning Arthur to be careful how he
startled one whose life hung on so slender a thread as
Lucy s ; so, when she asked, " Who was it, and why did
you not marry her ? Did you love her very much ? " he
answered indifferently, " I would rather not tell you who
it was, as that might be a breach of confidence. She did
not care to be my wife, and so that dream was over and
I was left for you."
He did not say how much he loved her who had dis
carded him, but Lucy forgot the omission, and asked,
" Was she very young and pretty ? "
" Young and pretty both, but not as beautiful as you,"
Arthur replied, his fingers softly putting back the golden
curls from the face looking so trustingly into his.
And in that he answered truly. He had seen no face
as beautiful of its kind as Lucy s was, and he was glad
that he could tell her so. He knew how that would
please her and partly make amends for the tender words
which he could not speak, for the phantom eyes still
haunting him so strangely.
864: SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED.
And Lucy, who took all things for granted, was more
than content, although she wondered that he did not kiss
her again, and wished she knew the girl who had come so
near being in her place. But she respected his wishes too
much to ask after what he had said, and she tried to
make herself glad that he had been so frank with her and
not left his other love-affair to the chance of her discov
ering it afterwards, at a time when it might be painful to
her.
" I wish I had something to confess," she thought ;
but from the score of her flirtations, and even offers, for
she had not lacked for them, she could not find one
where her own feelings had been enlisted in ever so
slight a degree until she remembered Thornton Hastings,
who for one whole week had paid her such attentions as
had made her dream of him, and even drive round once
on purpose to look at the house on Madison Square
where the future Mrs. Hastings was to live.
But his coolness afterwards, and his comments on her
frivolity had terribly angered her, making her think that
she hated him, as she had said to Anna. Now, however,
as she remembered the drive and the house, she nestled
closer to Arthur and told him all about it, fingering the
buttons on his dres^sing-gowu as she told him it, and
never dreaming of the pang she was inflicting as Arthur
thought how mysterious were God s ways, and wondered
that He had not reversed the matter and given Lucy to
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 365
Thornton Hastings, rather than to him, who did not half
deserve her.
" I know now I never cared a bit for Thornton Hastings,
though I might if he had not been so mean as to call me
frivolous," Lucy said, as she arose to go ; then suddenly
turning to the rector, she added : " I shall never ask who
your first love was, but would like to know if you have
quite forgotten her?"
" Have you forgotten Thornton Hastings ? " Arthur
asked, laughingly ; and Lucy replied, " Of course not ;
one never forgets, but I don t care a pin about him now >
and did I tell you, Fanny writes that rumor says he will
marry Anna Kuthven ? "
" Yes, no, I did not know ; I am not surprised ; "
and Arthur stooped to pick up a book lying on the floor,
thus hiding his face from Lucy, who, woman-like, was
glad to report a piece of gossip, and continued :
" She is a great belle, Fanny says ; dresses beautifully
and in perfect taste, besides talking as if she knew some
thing, and this pleases Mr. Hastings, who takes her out
to ride and drive, and all this after I warned her against
him and told her just what he said of me. I am surprised
at her ! "
Lucy was drawing on her gauntlets, and Arthur was
waiting to see her out, but she still lingered on the thresh
old, and at last said to him :
" I wonder you never fell in love with Anna yourself.
366
I am sure, if I were you I should prefer her to me. She
knows something and I do not, but I am going to study ;
there are piles of books in the library at Prospect Hill,
and you shall see what a famous student I will become.
If I get puzzled will you help me ? "
" Yes, willingly," Arthur replied, wishing that she
would go, before she indulged in any more speculation
as to why he did not love Anna Ruthven.
But Lucy was not done yet ; the keenest pang was yet
to come, and Arthur felt as if the earth was giving way
beneath his feet, when, as he lifted her into the saddle
and took her hand at parting, she said :
" You remember I am not going to be jealous of that
other girl. There is only one person who could make
me so, and that is Anna Ruthven ; but I know it was not
she, for that night we all came from Mrs. Hobbs s and
she went with me up-stairs, I asked her honestly if you
had ever offered yourself to her, and she told me you had
not. I think you showed a lack of taste ; but I am glad
it was not Anna."
Lucy was far down the road ere Arthur recovered from
the shock her last words had given him. What did it
mean, and why had Anna said he never proposed ? Was
there some mistake, and he the victim of it ? There was
a blinding mist before the young man s eyes, and a gnaw
ing pain at his heart as he returned to his study and
went over again with all the incidents of Anna s refusal,
SHOWING HOW IT HAPPENED. 367
even to the reading of the letter which he already knew
by heart. Then, as the thought came over him that pos
sibly Mrs. Meredith played him false in some way,
he groaned aloud, and the great sweat-drops fell upon the
table where he leaned his head. But this could not be,
he reasoned. Lucy was mistaken. She had not heard
aright. Somebody surely was mistaken, or he had com
mitted a fatal error.
" But I must abide by it," he said, lifting up his pallid
face. " God forgive the wrong I have done in asking
Lucy to be my wife when my heart belonged to another.
God help me to forget the one and love the other as I
ought. She is a lovely little girl, trusting me so wholly
that I can make her happy, and I will ! but Anna,
O Anna! "
It was a despairing cry, such as a newly-engaged man
should never have sent after another than his affianced
bride ; and Arthur thought so too, fighting back his first
love with an iron will, and after that hour of anguish
burying it so far from sight that he went that night to
Captain Humphreys and told of his engagement ; then
called upon his bride-elect, and tried so hard to be satis
fied, that, when at a late hour he returned to the parson
age, he was more than content ; and by way of fortifying
himself still more, wrote the letter which Thornton
Hastings read at Newport.
And that was how it happened.
CHAPTER IX.
ANNA.
THROUGH the rich curtains which shaded the
windows of a room looking out on Fifth Ave
nue the late October sun was shining ; and as
its red light played among the flowers on the carpet, a
pale young girl sat watching it and thinking of the Han
over hills, now decked in their autumnal glory, and of
the ivy on St. Mark s, growing so bright and beautiful
beneath the autumnal frosts. Anna had been very sick
since that morning in September when she sat on the
piazza at the Ocean House and read Lucy Harcourt s
letter. The faint was a precursor of fever, the physician
said when summoned to her aid ; and in a tremor of fear
and distress Mrs. Meredith had had her removed at once
to New York, and that was the last Anna remembered.
From the moment her aching head had touched the soft
pillows in Aunt Meredith s home, all consciousness had
fled, and for weeks she had hovered so near to death that
the telegraph-wires bore daily messages to Hanover,
where the aged couple who had cared for her since her
childhood wept, and prayed, and watched for tidings
ANNA. 369
from their darling. They could not go to her, for
Grandpa Humphreys had broken his leg, and his wife
could not leave him ; so they waited with what patience
they could for the daily bulletins which Mrs. Meredith
sent, appreciating their anxiety, and feeling glad withal
of anything which kept them from New York.
" She had best be prayed for in church," the old man
said ; and so, Sunday after Sunday, Arthur read the
prayer for the sick, his voice trembling as it had never
trembled before, and a keener sorrow in his heart than
he had ever known when saying the solemn words.
Heretofore the persons prayed for had been compara
tive strangers, people in whom he felt only the interest
a pastor feels in all his flock ; but now it was A.nna t
whose case he took to God, and he always smothered a
sob during the moment he waited for the fervent response
the congregation made, the Amen which came from the
pew where Lucy sat being louder and heartier than all
the rest, and having in it a sound of the tears which
dropped so fast on Lucy s book, as she asked that her
dear friend might net die. Oh, how he longed to go to
her ! But this he could not do, and so he had sent
Lucy, who bent so tenderly above the sick girl, whisper
ing loving words in her ear, and dropping kisses upon
the lips which uttered no response, save once, when
Lucy said, " Do you remember Arthur ? "
Then they murmured faintly : " Yes, Arthur, I re-
16*
370 ANNA.
member him, and the Christinas song, and the gathering
in the church. But that was long ago ; there s much
happened since then."
" And I am to marry Arthur," Lucy had said again ;
but this time there was no sign that she was understood,
and that afternoon she went back to Hanover loaded
with tickets for the children of St. Mark s and new books
for the Sunday-school, and accompanied by Valencia,
who, having had a serious difference with her mistress,
Mrs. Mei-edith, had offered her services to Miss liar-
court, and been at once accepted.
That was near the middle of October ; now it was the
last, and Anna was so much better that she sat up for an
hour or more and listened with some degree of interest
to what Mrs. Meredith told her of the days when she
lay so unconscious of all that was passing around her,
never heeding the kindly voice of Thornton Hastings,
who more than once had stood by her pillow with his
hand on her feverish brow, and tokens of whose thought-
fulness were visible in the choice bouquets he sent each
day, with notes of anxious inquiry when he did not come
himself. Anna had not seen him yet since her conva
lescence. She would rather not see any one until strong
enough to talk, she said. And so Thornton waited
patiently for the interview she had promised him when
she should be stronger, but every day he sent her fruit,
and flowers, and books which he thought would interest
ANNA. 371
her, and which always made her cheeks grow hot and
her heart beat regretfully, for she knew of the answer
she must give him when he came, and she shrank from
wounding him.
t( He is too good, too noble, to have an unwilling
wife," she thought ; but that did not make it the less
hard to tell him so, and when at last she was well enough
to see him, she waited his coming nervously, starting
when she heard his step, and trembling like a leaf as he
drew near her chair.
It was a very thin, wasted hand which he took in his,
holding it for a moment between his own, and then lay
ing it gently back upon her lap. He had come for the
answer to a question put six weeks before, and Anna
gave it to him, kindly, considerately, but decidedly.
She could not be his wife, she said, because she did not
love him as he ought to be loved.
"It is nothing personal," she added, working ner
vously at the heavy fringe of her shawl. "I respect you
more than any man I ever knew, except one ; and had
I met you years ago, before before
"I understand you," Thornton said, coming to her
aid. " You have tried to love me, but you cannot, be
cause your affections are given to another."
Anna bowed her head in silence ; then, after a moment,
she continued :
" You must forgive me, Mr. Hastings, for not telling
372 ANNA.
you this at once. I did not know then but I could lova
you ; at least, I meant to try, for you see this other one,"
the fingers got terribly tangled in the fringe as Anna
gasped for breath and went on, " he does not know,
and never will, that is, he never cared for me, nor
guessed how foolish I was to give him my love un
sought."
" Then it is not Arthur Leighton, and that is why you
refused him too," Mr. Hastings said involuntarily ; and
Anna looked quickly up, her cheeks growing paler than
they were before, as she replied : "I don t know what
you mean. I never refused Mr. Leighton, never ! "
" You never refused Mr. Leighton ? " Thornton ex
claimed, forgetting all discretion in his surprise at this
flat contradiction. " I have Arthur s word for it, writ
ten to me last June, while Mrs. Meredith was there, I
think."
" He surely could not have meant it, because it never
occurred ; there is some mistake," Anna found strength
to say ; and then she lay back in her easy-chair panting
for breath, her brain all in a whirl as she thought of tho
possibility that she was once so near the greatest happi
ness she had ever desired, and which was lost to her
now.
He brought her smelling-salts ; he gave her ice-water
to drink, and then, kneeling beside her, he fanned her
gently, while he continued : " There surely is a mistake,
ANNA. 373
and, I fear, a great wrong, too, somewhere. Were all
your servants trusty ? Was there no one who would
withhold a letter if he had written ? Were you always
at home when he called ? "
Thornton questioned her rapidly, for there "was a sus
picion in his mind as to the real culprit, but he would
not hint it to Anna unless she suggested it herself. And
this she was not likely to do. Mrs. Meredith had been
too kind to her during the past summer, and especially
during her recent illness, to allow of such a thought con
cerning her ; and in a maze of perplexity she replied to
his inquiries : " We keep but one servant, Esther, and
she I know is trusty. Besides, who could have refused
him for me ? Grandfather would not, I know, because
because " she hesitated a little, and her cheeks
blushed scarlet as she added, " I sometimes thought he
wanted it to be."
If Thornton had previously had a doubt as to the other
man who stood between himself and Anna, that doubt was
now removed, and laying aside all thoughts of self, he
exclaimed :
" I tell you there is a great wrong somewhere. Arthur
never told an untruth ; he thought that you refused him ;
he thinks so still, and I shall never rest till I have solved
the mystery. I will write to him to-day."
For an instant there swept over Anna a feeling of un
utterable joy as she thought what the end might be ; then,
374 ANNA.
as she remembered Lucy, her heart seemed to stop its beat
ing, and with a moan she stretched her hands towards
Thornton, who had risen as if to leave her.
" No, no, you must not interfere," she said. " It is
too late, too late. Don t you remember Lucy ? don t you
know she is to be his wife ? Lucy must not be sacrificed
for me. I can bear it the best."
She knew she had betrayed her secret, and she tried to
take it back, but Thornton interrupted her with, " Never
mind now, Anna. I guessed it all before, and it hurts
my self-pride less to know that it is Arthur whom you
prefer to me. I do not blame you for it."
He smoothed her hair pityingly, while he stood over
her a moment, wondering what his duty was. Anna told
him plainly what it was. He must leave Arthur and
Lucy alone. She insisted upon having it so, and he prom
ised her at last that he would not interfere. Then tak
ing her hand, he pressed it a moment between his own and
went out from her presence. In the hall below he met
with Mrs. Meredith, who he knew was waiting anxiously
to hear the result of that long interview.
" Your niece will never be my wife, and I am satisfied
io have it so," he said ; then, as he saw the lowering of
her brow, he continued, " I have long suspected that she
loved another, and my suspicions are confirmed, though
there s something I cannot understand," and fixing his
eyes searchingly upon Mrs. Meredith, he told what Arthur
ANNA. 375
had written and of Anna s denial of the same. " Some
body played her false," he said, rather enjoying the look
of terror and shame which crept into the haughty woman s
eyes, as she tried to appear natural and express her own
surprise at what she heard.
" I was right in my conjecture," Thornton thought as he
took his leave of Mrs. Meredith, who could not face Anna
then, but paced restlessly up and down her spacious
rooms, wondering how much Thornton suspected, and what
the end would be.
She had sinned for naught; Anna had upset all her
cherished plans, and could she have gone back for a few
months and done her work again, she would have left the
letter lying where she found it. But that could not be
now. She must reap as she had sown, and resolving
finally to hope for the best and abide the result, she went
up to Anna, who, having no suspicion of her, hurt her
ten times more cruelly, by the perfect faith with which she
confided the story to her, than bitter reproaches would
have done.
" I know you wanted me Ho marry Mr. Hastings,"
Anna said, " and I would if I could have done so con
scientiously, but I could not, for I may confess it now to
you. I did love Arthur so much, and I hoped that he
loved me."
The cold, hard woman, who had brought this grief upon
her niece, could only answer that it did not matter. She
376 ANNA.
was not very sorry, although she had wanted her to
marry Mr. Hastings, but she must not fret about that
now, or about anything. She would be better by and by,
and forget that she ever cared for Arthur Leighton.
" At least," and she spoke entreatingly now, " you will
not demean yourself to let him know of the mistake. It
would scarcely be womanly, and he may have gotten over
it. Present circumstances seem to prove as much."
Mrs. Meredith felt now that her secret was compara
tively safe, and with her spirits lighter she kissed her
niece lovingly and told her of a trip to Europe which she
had in view, promising that Anna should go with her,
and so not be at home when the marriage of Arthur and
Lucy took place.
It was appointed for the 15th of January, that being
the day when Lucy came of age, and the very afternoon
succeeding Anna s interview with Mr. Hastings the little
lady came down to New York to direct about her bridal
trousseau making, in the city. She was brimming over
with happiness and her face was a perfect gleam of sun
shine, when she came next day to Anna s room, and
throwing off her wrappings plunged at once into the sub
ject uppermost in her thoughts, telling first how she and
Arthur had quarrelled, "not quarrelled as uncle and
aunt Hetherton and lots of people do, but differed so seri
ously that I cried and had to give up, too," she said. " 1
wanted you for bridesmaid, and do you think, he objected ;
ANNA. 377
not objected to you, but to bridesmaids generally, and
he carried his point, so that we are just to stand up stiff
and straight alone, except as you ll all be round me in
the aisle. You ll be well by that time, and I want you
very near to me," Lucy said, squeezing the icy hand,
whose coldness made her start and exclaim, " Why,
Anna, how cold you are, and how pale you are looking.
Yon have been so sick, and I am so well ; it don t seem
quite right, does it ? And Arthur, too, is so thin that I
have coaxed him to raise whiskers to cover the hollows in
his cheeks. He looks a heap better now, though he was
always handsome. I do so wonder that you two never
fell in love, and I tell him so most every time I see him,
for I always think of you then."
It was terrible to Anna to sit and hear all this, and
the room grew dark as she listened, but she forced back
her pain, and stroking the curly head almost resting on
her lap, and said kindly, " You love him very much, don t
you, darling, so much that it would be hard to give him
up?"
" Yes, oh yes, I could not give him up now, except to
God. I trust I could do that, though once I could not, I
am sure," and nestling closer to Anna, Lucy whispered
to her of the hope that she was better than she used to
be, that daily intercoxirse with Arthur had not been
without its effect, and now she believed she tried to do
right from a higher motive than just to please him.
378 ANNA.
" God bless you, darling," was Anna s response, as she
clasped the hand of the young girl, who was now far more
worthy to be Arthur s wife than once she had been.
If Anna had ever had a thought of telling Arthur, it
would have been put aside by that interview with Lucy.
She could not harm that pure, loving, trusting girl, and
she sent her from her with a kiss and a blessing, praying
silently that she might never know a shadow of the pain
which she was suffering.
CHAPTER X.
MRS. MEREDITH S CONSCIENCE.
|HE had one years before, but since the summer
day when she sent from her the white-faced
man, whose heart she knew she had broken, it
had been hardening, searing over with a stiff crust which
nothing, it seemed, could penetrate. And yet there were
times when she was softened and wished that much which
she had done might be blotted out from the great book
in which even she believed. There was many a misdeed
recorded there against her, she knew, and occasionally
there stole over her a strange disquietude as to how she
should confront them when they all came up before her.
Usually she could cast such thoughts aside by a drive
down gay Broadway, or at most by a call at Stewart s,
but the sight of Anna s white face and the knowing
what made it so white were a constant reproach, and con
science gradually wakened from its torpor, enough to
whisper of the only restitution in her power, that of con
fession to Arthur. But from this she shrank nervously.
She could not humble herself thus to any one, and she
would not either, she said. Then came the fear lest by
380 -MES MEREDITH S CONSCIENCE.
another than herself her guilt should come to light. What
if Thornton Hastings should find her out ? She was half
afraid he suspected her now, and that gave her the heav
iest pang of all, for she respected Thornton highly, and it
would cost her much to lose his good opinion. She had
lost him for her niece, but she could not spare him from
herself, and so in sad perplexity, which wore upon her
visibly, the autumn days went on until at last she sat
one morning in her dressing-room and read iu a foreign
paper :
" Died at Strasburg, Aug. 31st, Edward Coleman, Esq.
aged 46."
That was all, but the paper dropped from the trem
bling hands, and the proud woman of the world bowed
her head upon the cold marble of the table and wept
aloud. She was not Mrs. Meredith now, she was Julia
Kuthven again, and she stood with Edward Coleman out
in the grassy orchard where the apple-blossoms were
dropping from the trees, and the air was full of the in
sects hum and the song of mating birds. Many years
had passed since then. She was the wealthy Mrs. Mere
dith now, and he was dead in Strasburg. He had been
true to her to the last, for he had never married, and
those who had met him abroad had brought back the
same report of a " white-haired man, old before his time,
and with a tired, sad look on his face." That look she
had written there, and she wept on as she recalled the
MRS. MEREDITH S CONSCIENCE. 381
past and murmured softly : " Poor Edward, I loved you
all the wiille, but I sold myself for gold, and it turned
your brown locks snowy white, poor darling, " and
her hands moved up and down the folds of her cashmere
robe as if it were the brown locks they were smoothing
just as they used to do. Then came a thought of Anna,
whose face wore much the look which Edward s did
when he went slowly from the orchard and left her there
alone with the apple-blossoms dropping on her head, and
the hum of the bees in her ear.
" I can at least do right in that respect," she said.
" I can undo the past to some extent and lessen the load
of sin upon my shoulders. I will write to Arthur
Leighton; I surely need tell no one else, not yet, at
least, lest he has outlived his love for Anna. I can
trust to his discretion and to his honor too; he will not
betray me, unless it is necessary, and then only to Anna.
Edward would bid me do it if he could speak ; he was
some like Arthur Leighton."
And so with the dead man in Strasburg before her
eyes, Mrs. Meredith nerved herself to write to Arthur
Leighton, confessing the fraud imposed upon him, im
ploring his forgiveness, and begging him to spare her as
much as possible.
" I know from Anna s own lips how much she has
always loved you," she wrote in conclusion, " but she
does not know of the stolen letter, and I leave you to
382 MRS. MEREDITH S CONSCIENCE.
make such use of the knowledge as you shall think
proper."
She did not put in a single plea for poor little Lucy
dancing so gayly over the mine just ready to explode.
She was purely selfish still with all her qualms of con
science, and only thought of Anna, whom she would
make happy at another s sacrifice. So she never hinted
that it was possible for Arthur to keep his word pledged
to Lucy Harcourt, and as she finished her own letter and
placed it in an envelope with the one which Arthur had
sent to Anna, her thoughts leaped forward to the wed
ding she would give her niece, a wedding not quite lik*
that she had designed for Mrs. Thornton Hastings, bu^
a quiet, elegant aflfair, just suited to a clergyman who
was marrying a Ruthven.
CHAPTER XI.
THE LETTER RECEIVED.
IITHTJR had been spending the evening at
Prospect hill. The Hethertons were there
now, and would remain till after the 15th ;
and since they came the rector had found it even pleas-
anter calling there than it had been before with only his
bride-elect to entertain him. Sure of Mr. Bellamy,
Fanny had laid aside her sharpness and was exceedingly
witty and brilliant, while, now that it was settled, the
colonel was too thorough a gentleman to be otherwise
than gracious to his future nephew, and Mrs. Hetherton
was always polite and ladylike, so that the rector looked
forward with a good deal of interest to the evenings he
usually gave to Lucy, who, though satisfied to have him
in her sight, still preferred the olden time when she had
him all to herself, and was not disquieted with the fear
that she was not learned enough for him, as she often
was when she heard him talking with Fanny and her
uncle of things she did not understand. This evening,
however, the family were away and she received him
alone, trying so hard to come up to his capacity, talking
384 THE LETTER RECEIVED.
so intelligibly of the books she had been reading, and
looking so lovely in her crimson winter dress, besides
being so sweetly affectionate and confiding that for once
since his engagement Arthur was more than content, and
returned her modest caresses with a warmth he had not
felt before. He was learning to love her very much, he
thought, and when at last he took his leave and she went
with him to the door there was an unwonted tenderness
in his manner as he pushed her gently back, for the first
snow of the season was falling and the large flakes
dropped upon her hair, from which he brushed them care
fully away.
" I cannot let my darling take cold," he said, and
Lucy felt a strange thrill of joy, for never before had ho
called her his darling, and sometimes she had feared that
the love she received was not as great as the love she
gave.
But she did not think so now, and in an ecstasy of joy
she stood in the deep recess of the bay-window watching
him as he went away through the moonlight and the
feathery cloud of snow, wondering why, when she was so
happy, there should cling to her a haunting presentiment
that she and Arthur would never meet again just as they
had parted. Arthur, on the contrary, was troubled with
no such presentiment. Of Anna he hardly thought, or,
if he did, the vision was obscured by the fair picture he
had seen standing in the door with the snow-flakes resting
THE LETTER RECEIVED. 385
on its hair like pearls in a golden cabinet. And Arthur
thanked his God that he was beginning at last to feel
right, that the solemn vows he was so soon to utter
would not be a mockery. It was Arthur s wish to teach
to others how dark and mysterious are the ways of Provi
dence, but he had not himself half learned that lesson
in all its strange reality ; but the lesson was coming on
apace ; each stride of his swift-footed beast brought him
nearer and nearer to the great shock waiting for him
upon his study-table, where his man had put it. He saw
it the first thing on entering the room, but he did not
take it up until the snow was brushed from his garments
and he had seated himself by the cheerful fire blazing on.
the hearth. Then sitting in his easy-chair and Jioving
thg lamp nearer to him, he took Mrs. Meredith s letter
aud broke the seal, starting as if a serpent had stung
him when in the note enclosed he recognized his own
handwriting, the same he had sent to Anna when his
heart was as full of hope as the brown stalks, now beat
ing against his windows with a dismal sound, were full
of fragrant blossoms. Both had died since then, the
roses and his hopes, and Arthur almost wished that he,
too, were dead when he read Mrs. Meredith s letter and
saw the gulf he was treading. Like the waves of the
sea his love for Anna came rolling back upon him, aug
mented and intensified by all that he had suffered, and
by the terrible conviction that it could not be, although,
17
386 THE LETTER RECEIVED.
alas, " it might have been." He repeated these words
over and over again, as, stupefied with pain, he sat gazing
at vacancy, thinking how true was the couplet :
" Of all sad words of tongne or pen,
The Baddest are these, it might have been."
lie could not pray at first, his brain was so confused ;
but when the white, quivering lips could move and the
poor aching heart could pray, he only whispered : " God
help me to do right," and by that prayer he knew that
for a single instant there had crept across his mind the
possibility of sacrificing Lucy, the girl who loved and
trusted him so much ; but only for an instant. He
would not cast her from him, though to take her now,
knowing what he did, was almost death itself. " But
God can help me, and he will," he cried, then falling
upon his knees, with his face bowed to the floor, the
rector of St. Mark s prayed as he had never prayed be
fore, first for himself, whose need was greatest, then for
Lucy, that she might never know what making her happy
had cost him, and then for Anna, whose name he could
not speak. "That other one," he called her, and his
heart kept swelling in his throat and preventing his
utterance so that the words he would say never reached
his lips. But God heard them j list the same, and knew
bis child was asking that Anna might forget him, if to
remember him was pain, that she might learn to love
THE LETTER RECEIVED. 387
another far worthier than he had ever been. He did
not think of Mrs. Meredith ; he had no feeling of resent
ment then ; he was too wholly crushed to care how his
ruin had been brought about, and long after the wood-
fire on the hearth had turned to cold, gray ashes, he knelt
upon the floor and battled with his grief; and when the
morning broke it found him still in the cheerless room,
where he had passed the entire night and from which he
went forth strengthened as he hoped to do what he fully
believed to be his duty.
This was on Saturday, and the Sunday following there
was no service at St. Mark s. The rector was sick, the
sexton said, hard sick, too, he had heard, and the Heth-
erton carriage with Lucy in it drove swiftly to the par
sonage, where the quiet and solitude awed and frightened
her as she entered the house and asked the housekeeper
how Mr. Leighton was.
"It is very sudden," she said. " He was perfectly well
when he left me on Friday night. Please tell him I am
here."
The housekeeper shook her head. Her master s orders
were that no one but the doctor should be admitted, she
said, repeating what Arthur had told her in anticipation
of just such an infliction as this. But Lucy was not to
be denied; Arthur was hers ; his sickness was hers ; his
sxifferiug was hers, and see him she would.
" He surely did not mean me, when he asked that no
388 THjS LETTER RECEIVED.
one should be admitted. Tell him it is I ; it is Lucy,"
she said, with an air of authority, which in one so small,
so pretty, an/i so childish only amused Mrs. Brown, who
departed with the message, while Lucy sat down with her
feet upon the stove and looked around the sitting-room,
thinking that it was smaller and poorer than the one at
Prospect Hill, and how she would remodel it when she
was mistress there.
ft He says you can come," was the word Mrs. Brown
brought back, and with a gleam of triumph in her eye and
a toss of the head which said, " I told you so," Lucy
went softly into the darkened room and shut the door be
hind her.
Arthur had half expected this and had nerved himself to
meet it, but the cold sweat stood on his face and his heart
throbbed painfully as Lucy bent over him and said, " Poor,
dear Arthur, I am so sorry for you, and if I could I d
bear the pain so willingly."
He knew she would ; she was just as loving and un
selfish as that, and he wound his arms around her and
drew her closer to him, while he whispered, " My poor
little Lucy, my poor little Lucy. I don t deserve this
from you."
She did not know what he meant, and she only an
swered him with kisses, while her hands moved caressingly
across his forehead, just as they had moved years ago in
Home when she soothed the pain away. There certainly
THE LETTER RECEIVED. 389
was a mesmeric influence emanating from those hands,
and Arthur felt its power, growing very quiet and at last
falling away to sleep while the passes went on, and Lucy
held her breath lest she should waken him. She was a
famous nurse, the physician said, when he came, and he
constituted her his coadjutor and gave his patient s medi
cine into her care.
It was hardly proper for her niece to stay at the rec
tory, Mrs. Hetherton thought, but Lucy was one who
could trample down proprieties, and it was finally ar
ranged that, in order to avoid all comment, Fanny shoxild
stay with her.
So, while Fanny went to bed and slept Lucy sat aL
night in the sick-room with Mrs. Brown, and when the
next morning came she was looking very pale, and lan
guid, but very beautiful withal. At least such was the
mental compliment paid her by Thornton Hastings, who
was passing through Hanover and stopped over a train to
see his old college friend and perhaps tell him what he
began to feel it was his duty to tell him in spite of his
promise to Anna. She was nearly well now and had
driven with him twice to the park, but he could not be
insensible to what she suffered, or how she shrank from
hearing the proposed wedding discussed, and in his in
tense pity for her he had half resolved to break his word
and tell Arthur what he knew. But he changed his mind
when he had been in Hanover a few hours and watched
390 THE LETTER RECEIVED.
the little fairy, who, like some ministering angel, glided
about the sick-room, showing herself every whit a woman,
and making him repent that he had ever called her frivo
lous or silly. She was not either, he said, and with a
magnanimity for which he thought himself entitled to a
good deal of praise, he felt that it was very possible for
Arthur to love the gentle little girl who smoothed his pil
lows so tenderly, and whose fingers threaded so lovingly the
dark brown locks when she thought he Thornton was
not looking on. She was very coy of him, and very distant
towards him, for she had not forgotten his sin, and she
treated him at first with a reserve for which he could not
account. But as the days went on and Arthur grew so
sick that his parishioners began to tremble for their young
minister s life, and to think it perfectly right for Lucy to
stay with him even if she was assisted in her labor of love
by the stranger from New York, the reserve all disap
peared, and on the most perfect terms of amity she and
Thornton Hastings watched together by Arthur s side.
Thornton Hastings learned more lessons than one in
that sick-room where Arthur s faith in God triumphed
over the terrors of the grave which at one time seemed
so near, while the timid Lucy, whom he had only known
as a gay butterfly of fashion, dared before him to pray
that God would spare her promised husband, or give her
grace to say " Thy will be done." Thornton could hardly
say that he was skeptical before, but any doubts he might
TEE LETTER RECEIVED. 391
have had touching the great fundamental truths on which
a true religion rests were gone forever, and he left Han
over a changed man in more respects than one.
Arthur did not die, and on the Sunday preceding the
week when the Christmas decorations were to commence
he came again before his people, his face very pale and
worn, and wearing upon it a look which told of a new
baptism, an added amount of faith which had helped to
lift him above the fleeting cares of this present life. And
yet there was much of earth clinging to him still, and it
made itself felt in the rapid beatings of his heart when he
glanced towards the pew where Lucy knelt and knew that
she was giving thanks for him restored again.
Once in the earlier stages of his convalescence he had
almost betrayed his secret by asking her which she would
rather do, bury him from her sight, feeling that he loved
her to the last, or give him to another now that she knew
he would recover.
There was a frightened look in Lucy s eyes as she re
plied :
" I would ten thousand times rather see you dead, and
know that even in death you were my own, than to lose
you that other way. O Arthur, you have no thought of
leaving me now ? "
" No, darling, I have not. I am yours always," he
said, feeling that the compact was sealed forever, and that
God blessed the sealing.
392 THE LETTER RECEIVED.
He had written to Mrs. Meredith, granting her his for
giveness, and asking that if Anna did not already know
of the deception she might never be enlightened. And
Mrs. Meredith had answered that Anna had only heard
a rumor that an offer had been made her, but that she
regarded it as a mistake, and was fast recovering both her
health and spirits. Mrs. Meredith did not add her sur
prise at Arthur s conscientiousness in adhering to his en
gagement, nor hint that her attack of conscience was so
safely over ; she was glad of it, for she still had hope of that
house on Madison Square ; but Arthur guessed at it and
dismissed her from his mind, and waited with a trusting
heart for whatever the future might bring.
CHAPTER XII.
VALENCIA.
ER, Y extensive preparations were making at Pros
pect Hill for the double wedding to occur on the
loth of January. After much debate and con
sultation, Fanny had decided to take Mr. Bellamy then,
and thus she, too, shared largely in the general interest
and excitement which pervaded everything. Both brides-
elect were very happy, but in a widely different way, for
while Fanny was quiet and undemonstrative Lucy seemed
wild with joy and danced gayly about the house, now in
the kitchen, where the cake was made, now in the cham
ber, where the plain sewing was done, and then flitting to
her own room in quest of Valencia, who was sent on
divers errands of mercy, the little lady thinking that as
the time for her marriage was so near it would be proper
for her to stop in-doors and not show herself in pub
lic quite so freely as she had been in the habit of doing.
So she remained at home, and they missed her in the back
streets and by-lanes, and the Widow Hobbs, who was still
an invalid, pined for a sight of her bright face, and was
only half consoled for its absence by the charities which
17*
394 VALENCIA.
Valencia brought, the smart waiting-maid putting on a
great many airs and making Mrs. Hobbs feel keenly how
greatly she thought herself demeaned by coming to such
a heathenish place. The Hanoverians, too, missed her
in the streets, but for this they made ample amends by
discussing the preparations at Prospect Hill and com
menting upon the bridal trousseau, which was sent from
New York the week before Christmas, thus affording a
most fruitful theme of comment for the women and maids
engaged in trimming the church. There were dresses of
every conceivable fashion, it was said, but none were
quite so grand as the wedding-dress itself, a heavy
white silk which " could stand alone," and trailed a full
yard behind. It was also whispered that, not content
with seeing the effect of her bridal robes as they lay upon
the bed, Miss Lucy Harcourt had actually tried them on,
wreath, veil, and all, and stood before the glass until Miss
Fanny had laughed at her for being so vain and foolish,
and said she was a pretty specimen for a sober clergy
man s wife. For all this gossip the villagers were in
debted mostly to Valencia Le Barre, who, ever since her
arrival at Prospect Hill, had been growing somewhat dis
satisfied with the young mistress she had expected to rule
even more completely than she had ruled Mrs. Meredith.
But in this she was mistaken, and it did not improve her
never very amiable temper to find that she could not with
safety appropriate more than half her mistress handker-
VALENCIA. 395
chiefs, collars, cuffs, and gloves, to say nothing of per
fumery and pomades ; and as this was a new state of
things with Valencia, she chafed at the administration
under which she had so willingly put herself, and told
things of her mistress which no sensible servant would
ever have reported. And Lucy gave her plenty to tell.
Frank and outspoken as a child, she acted as she felt and
did try on the bridal dress, did scream with delight when
Valencia fastened the veil and let its fleecy folds fall
gracefully around her.
" I wonder what Arthur will think. I so wish he was
here," she had said, ordering a glass brought, that she
might see herself from behind, and know just how much
her dress trailed, and how it looked beneath the costly
veil.
She was very beautiful in her bridal robes, and she
kept them on till Fanny began to chide her for her van
ity, and even then she lingered before the mirror as if loth
to take them off".
" I don t believe in presentiments," she said, " but do
you know it seems to me just as if I should never wear
this again," and she smoothed thoughtfully the folds of
the heavy silk she had just laid upon the bed. " I don t
know what can happen to prevent it, unless Arthur
should die. He was so pale last Sunday, and seemed so
weak that I shuddered every time I looked at him. I
mean to drive round there this afternoon," she continued.
396 VALENCIA.
t( I suppose it is too cold for him to venture out, and he
has no carriage, either."
Accordingly she went to the rectory that afternoon,
and the women in the church saw her as she drove by,
the gorgeous colors of her carriage-blanket flashing in the
wintry sunshine, and the long white feather in her hat
waving up and down as she nodded to them. There was
a little too much of the lady patroness about her to suit
the plain Hanoverians, especially those who were neither
high enough nor low enough to be honored with her no
tice ; and as they returned to their wreath-making and
gossip, they wondered under their breath if it would not
on the whole have been better if their clergyman had
married Anna Ruthven, instead of the fine city girl with
her Parisian manners. As they said this, a gleam of in
telligence shot from the gray eyes of Valencia Le Barre,
who was there at work in a most unamiable mood.
" She did not like to stain her hands with the nasty
hemlock, more than other folks," she had said, when, after
the trying on of the bridal dress, Lucy had remonstrated
with her for some duty neglected, and then bidden her go
to the church and help if she was needed.
"I must certainly dismiss you unless you improve,"
Lucy had said to the insolent girl, who went unwillingly
to the church, where she sat tying wreaths when the
carriage went by.
She had thought many times of the letter she had read,
VALENCIA. 397
and more than once when particularly angry it had been
upon her lips to tell her mistress that she was not Mr.
Leighton sj?rsi choice, if indeed she was his choice at all ;
but there was something in Lucy s manner which held
her back, besides which she was rather unwilling to con
fess to her own meanness in reading the stolen letter.
" I could tell them something if I would," she thought,
as she bent over the hemlock boughs, and listened to the
remarks ; but for that time she kept her secret and worked
on moodily, while the unsuspecting Lucy went her way,
and was soon alighting at the parsonage-gate.
Arthur saw her as she came up the walk, and went out
to meet her. He was looking very pale and miserable,
and his clothes hung loosely upon him, but he welcomed
her kindly, and lead her in to the fire, and tried to be
lieve that he was glad to see her sitting there with her
little high-heeled boots upon the fender, and the bright
hues of her bal moral just showing beneath her dress of
blue merino. She went all over the house as she usually
did, suggesting alterations and improvements, and greatly
confusing good Mrs. Brown, who trudged obediently after
her, wondering what she and her master were ever to do
with the gay-plumaged bird, whose ways were so unlike
their own.
"You must drive with me to the church," she said at
last to Arthur. " Fresh air will do you good, and you
stay moped up too much. I wanted you to-day at Pros-
398 VALENCIA.
pect Hill, for this morning the express from New York
brought " she stood up on tiptoe to whisper the great
news to him, but his pulses did not quicken in the least,
even when she told him how charming was the bridal-
dress.
He was standing before the mirror, and glancing at
himself, he said half laughingly, half sadly, " I am a pit
iful-looking bridegroom to go with all that finery. I
should not think you would want me, Lucy."
" But I do," she answered, holding his hand and lead
ing him to the carriage, which took him swiftly to the
church.
He had not intended going there as long as there was an
excuse for staying away, and he felt himself grow sick and
faint when he stood amid the Christmas decorations, and
remembered the last year, when he and Anna had fastened
the wreaths upon the wall. They were trimming the
church very elaborately in honor of him and his bride-
elect, and white artificial flowers, so natural that they
could not be detected from the real, were mixed with
scarlet leaves and placed among the mass of green. The
effect was very fine, and Arthur tried to praise it, but his
face belied his words, and after he was gone, the disap
pointed girls declared that he looked more like a man
about to be hung, than one so soon to be married.
It was very late that night when Lucy summoned
Valencia to comb out her long, thick curls, and Valencia
VALENCIA. 399
Mred and cross and sleepy, and handled the brush so
awk tcardly, and snarled her mistress s hair so often, that
Lucy expostulated with her sharply, and this awoke the
slumbering demon, which, bursting into full life, could
no longer .be restrained, and in amazement which kept
her silent, Lucy listened, while Valencia vulgarly taunted
her with " standing in Anna Ruthven s shoes," and told
all she knew of the letter stolen by Mrs. Meredith, and
the one she carried to Arthur. But Valencia s anger
qiiickly cooled, and she trembled with fear when she saw
how deathly white her mistress grew, and even heard the
loud beating of the heart which seemed trying to burst
from its prison, and fall Weeding at the feet of the poor,
wretched girl, around whose lips the white foam gathered
as she motioned Valencia to stop, and whispered " I am
dying."
She was not dying, but the fainting-fit which ensued
was more like death than that which had come upon
Anna when she heard that Arthur was lost. Once they
really thought her dead, and in an agony of remorse
Valencia hung over her, accusing herself as a murderess,
but giving no other explanation to those around her than :
" I was combing her hair when the white froth spirted
all over her wrapper, and she said that she was dying."
And that was all the family know of the strange attack
which lasted till the dawn of day, ax\(J left upon Lucy s
face a look as if years and years of *guish had passed
400 VALENCIA.
over her young head, and left its footprints behind.
Early in the morning she asked to see Valencia alone,
and the repentant girl went to her, prepared to take back
all she had said, and declare the whole a lie. But some
thing in Lucy s manner wrung the truth from her, and
she repeated the story again so clearly, that Lucy had no
longer a doubt that Anna was preferred to herself, and
sending Valencia away, she moaned piteously :
" Oh, what shall I do ? What is my duty ? "
The part which hurt her most of all was the terrible
certainty that Arthur did not love her, as he loved Anna
Ruthven. She seemed intuitively to understand it all,
and see how in an unguarded moment he had offered
himself to save her good name from gossip, and how ever
since his life had been a constant struggle to do his duty
by her.
" Poor Arthur," she sobbed, " yours has been a hard
lot, trying to act the love you did not feel ; but it shall be
so no longer, for I will set you free."
This was her final decision, but she did- not reach it till
a day and night had passed, during which she lay with
her face turned to the wall, saying she wanted nothing
except to be left alone.
" When I can, I ll tell you," she had said to Fanny and
ner aunt, who insisted upon knowing the cause of her
distress. " When I can, I ll tell you all about it. Leave
me alone till then."
VALENCIA. 401
So they ceased to worry her, but Fanny sat constantly
in the room watching the motionless figure, which took
whatever she offered, but otherwise gave no sign of life
until the morning of the second day, when it turned
slowly towards her, and the livid lips quivered piteously
and made an attempt to smile as they said :
" I can tell you now. I have made up my mind."
Fanny s eyes were dim with the truest tears she had
ever shed when Lucy s story was ended, and her voice
was very low as she asked :
" And you mean to give him up at this late hour ? "
" Yes, I mean to give him up. I have been over the
entire ground many times, even to the deep humiliation
of what people will say, and I have come each time to
the same conclusion. It is right that Arthur should be
released, and I shall release him."
" And what will you do ? " Fanny asked, gazing in
wonder and awe at the young girl, who answered : " I do
not know ; I have not thought. I guess God will take
care of that."
And God did take care of that, and inclined the Heth-
erton family to be very kind and tender towards her,
and kept Arthur from the house until the Christmas dec
orations were completed and the Christmas festival waa
held. Many were the inquiries made for Lxicy on
Christmas Eve, and many thanks and wishes for her
speedy restoration were sent to her by those whom she
402 VALENCIA.
had so bountifully remembered. Thornton Hastings,
too, who had come to town and was present at the
church on Christmas Eve, asked for her with almost as
much interest as Arthur, who bade Fanny tell her that
he should call on her on the morrow after the morning
service.
" Oh, I cannot see him here ! I must tell him at the
rectory in the very room where he asked me to be his
wife," Lucy said, when Fanny reported Arthur s mes
sage. " I am able to ride there, and it will be fine
sleighing to-morrow. See, the snow is falling now," and
pushing back the curtain Lucy looked drearily out upon
the fast- whitening ground, sighing as she remembered the
night when the first snow-flakes were falling, and she
stood watching them with Arthur at her side.
Fanny did not oppose her cousin, and with a kiss
upon the blue-veined forehead, she went to her own
room and left her to think for the hundredth time wfiat
she should say to Arthur.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHRISTMAS DAY.
(HE worshippers at St. Mark s on Christmas
morning heard the music of the bells as the
Hetherton sleigh dashed by, but none of them
knew whither it was bound or dreamed of the scene
which awaited the rector when after the services were over
he started towards home. Lucy had kept to her resolu
tion, and just as Mrs. Brown was looking at the clock to see
if it was time to put her fowls to bake, she heard the
hall door open softly, and almost dropped her dripping-
pan in her surprise at the sight of Lucy Harcourt, whc
looked so mournfully at her as she said :
"I want to go to Arthur s room, the library, I
mean."
" Why, child, what is the matter ? I heard you was
sick, but did not s spose twas anything very lad. You
are paler than a ghost," Mrs. Brown exclaimed, as she
tried to unfasten Lucy s hood and cloak and lead her to
the fire.
But Lucy was not cold, and would rather go at once
to Arthur s room. So Mrs. Brown made no objection,
404 CHRISTMAS DAT.
though she wondered if the girl was crazy as she went
back to her fowls and Christmas pudding, and left Lucy
to find her way alone to Arthur s study, which looked so
like its owner, with his dressing-gown across the lounge
just where he had thrown it, his slippers on the rug, and
his arm-chair standing near the table, where he had sat
when he asked Lucy to be his wife, and where she now
sat down, panting heavily for breath and gazing drearily
around with the look of a frightened bird when seeking
for some avenue of escape from an appalling danger.
There was no escape, and with a moan she laid her head
upon the writing-table, and prayed that Arthur might
come quickly while she had sense and strength to tell
him. She heard his step at last, and rose up to meet
him, smiling a little at his sudden start when he s.w her
there.
"It s only I," she said, shedding back the curls from
her pallid face and grasping the chair to steady herself
and keep from falling. " I am not here to frighten or
worry you. I ve come to do you good, to set you free.
O Arthur, you do not know how terribly you have
been wronged, and I did not know it either till a few
days ago ! She never received your letter, Anna never
did. If she had she would have answered yes and been
in my place now ; but she is going to be there. I give
you up to Anna. I m here to tell you so. But O
Arthur, it hurts, it hurts "
CHRISTMAS DAT. 405
He knew it hurt by the agonized expression of her
face, but he could not go near her for a moment, so great
was his surprise at what he saw and heard. But when
the first shock for them both was past, ai d he could
listen to her more rational account of what she knew and
what she was there to do, he refused to listen. Ha
knew it all before, and he would not be free ; he would
keep his word, he said. Matters had gone too far to bo
so suddenly ended ; he held her to her promise, and she
must be his wife.
" Can you tell me truly that you love me more than
Anna ? " Lucy asked, a ray of hope dawning for an in
stant upon her heart, but fading into utter darkness as
Arthur hesitated to answer her.
He did love Anna best, though never had Lucy been
so near supplanting her as at that moment when she
stood before him and told him he was free. There was
something in the magnitude of her generosity which
touched him closely, and made her dearer to him than
she had ever been.
" I can make you very happy," he said at last, and
Lucy replied, " Yes, but how with yourself ? Would you
be happy too ? No, Arthur, you would not, and neither
should I, knowing what I do. It is best that we should
part, though it almost breaks my heart, for I have loved
you so much."
She stopped for breath, and Arthur was wondering
406 CHRISTMAS DAY.
what lie should say next, when a cheery whistle sounded
near, and Thornton Hastings appeared in the door. He
had just returned from the post-office, whither he had
gone after church, and not knowing any one but Arthur
was in the library, had come there at once.
" I beg your pardon," he said, when he saw Lucy ; and
he was hurrying away, but laicy called him back, feeling
that in him she would find a powerful ally to aid her in
her task.
Appealing to him as Arthur s friend, she repeated
Valencia s story rapidly, and then went on : " Anna
never knew of that letter, or she would have answered
yes. I know she loves him, for I can remember a thou
sand things which prove it, and I know he has loved her
best all the time, even when trying so hard to love me.
Oh, how it hurts me to think he had to try to love me
who loved him so much. But that is all past now. I
give him up to Anna, and you must help me as if I were
your sister. Tell him it is best. He must not argue
against me, for I feel myself giving way through my
great love for him, and I know it is not right. Tell him,
Mr. Hastings ; plead my cause for me ; say what a true
woman ought to say, for, believe me, I am in earnest in
giving him to Anna."
There was a ghastly hue upon her face, and her feat
ures looked pinched and rigid, but the terrible heart
beats were not there. God in His great mercy kept them
(JHR18TMA8 DAT. 407
back, else she had surely died under that strong excite
ment. Thornton thought she was fainting, and going
hastily to her side, passed his arm around her and put
her in the chair ; then standing by her, he said just what
first came into his mind to say. It was a delicate matter
in which to interfere, but he handled ifc carefully, telling
frankly what had passed between himself and Anna, and
giving as his opinion, that she loved Arthur to-day just
as well as before she left Hanover.
" Then it is surely right for Arthur to marry her, and
he must ! " Lucy exclaimed vehemently, while Thornton
laid his hand pityingly upon her head, and said, " And
only you be sacrificed."
There was something wonderfully tender in the tone
of Thornton s voice, and Lucy glanced quickly at him
while her eyes filled with the first tears she had shed
since she came into the room.
" I am willing ; I am ready ; I have made up my
mind, and I shall never unmake it," she answered, while
Arthur put in a feeble remonstrance.
But Thornton was on Lucy s side, and did with his
cooler judgment what she could not ; and when at last the
interview was ended, there was no ring on Lucy s forefinger,
for Arthur held it in his hand, and their engagement was
at an end. Stunned with what he had passed through,
he stood motionless while Thornton drew Lucy s cloak
about her shoulders, fastened her fur, tied on her satin
403 CHRISTMAS DAT.
hood, and took such care of her as a mother would take
of a suffering child.
" It is hardly safe to send her home alone," he thought,
as he looked into her face and saw how weak she was.
" As a friend of both I ought to accompany her."
She was indeed so weak that she could scarcely stand,
and Thornton took her in his arms and carried her to the
sleigh ; then springing in beside her, he made her lean her
tired head upon his shoulder as they drove to Prospect
Hill. She did not seem frivolous to him now, but rather
the noblest type of womanhood he had ever met. Few
could have done what she had, and there was much of
warmth and fervor in the clasp of his hand as he bade
her good-by, and went back to the rectory.
Great was the consternation and surprise in Hanover
when it was known that there was to be but one bride
at Prospect Hill on the night of the 15th, and various
were the surmises as to the cause of the sudden change ;
but, strive as they might, the good people of the village
could not get at the truth, for Valencia held her peace,
while the Hethertons were far too proud to admit of
their being questioned, and Thornton Hastings stood a
bulwark of defence between the people and the clergyman,
and managed to have the pulpit at St. Mark s supplied for
a few weeks, while he took Arthur away, saying that his
iealth required the change.
CHRISTMAS DAT. 409
" You have done nobly, darling," Fanny Hetlierton
had said to Lucy when she received her from Thornton s
hands and heard that all was over. Then, leading her
half-fainting cousin to her own cheerful room, she made
her lie down while she told her of the plan she had
formed when first she heard what Lucy s intentions were.
" I wrote to Mr. Bellamy asking if he would take a trip
to Europe, so that you could go with us, for I knew you
would not wish to stay here. To-day I have his answer
saying he will go; and what is better yet, father and
mother are going, too."
C( Oh I am so glad ! I could not stay here now," Lucy
replied, sobbing herself to sleep, while Fanny sat by and
watched, wondering at the strength which had upheld her
weak little cousin in the struggle she had been through,
and feeling, too, that it was just as well, for after all it
was a mesalliance for an heiress like her cousin to marry
a poor clergyman.
There was a great wedding at Prospect Hill on the
night of the 15th, but neither Lucy nor Arthur were
there. He lay sick again at the St. Denis, in New York,
and she was alone in her chamber fighting back her tears,
and praying that now die worst was over she might be
withheld from looking back and wishing the work undone.
She went with the bridal party to New York, where she
tarried for a few days, but saw no one but Anna, for
18
410 CHRISTMAS DAT.
whom she sent at once. The interview lasted more than
an hour, and Anna s eyes were swollen with weeping
when at last it ended ; but Lucy s face, though white as
snow, was very calm and quiet, and wore a peaceful, placid
look which made it like the face of an angel. Two weeks
later, and the steamer Java bore her away across the
water, where she hoped to outlive the storm which had
beaten so piteously upon her. Thornton Hastings and
Anna went with her on board the ship, and for their sakes
she tried to appear natural, succeeding so well that it was
a very pleasant picture, which Thornton kept in his mind,
of a frail little figure standing upon the deck, holding its
water-proof together with one hand, and with the other
waving a smiling adieu to Anna and himself.
More than a year later Thornton Hastings followed
that figure across the sea, and found it in beautiful
Venice, sailing again through the moonlit streets, and
listening to the music which came so oft from the passing
gondolas. It had recovered its former roundness, and
the face was even more beautiful than it had been before,
for the light frivolity was gone, and there was in its stead
a peaceful, subdued expression which made Lucy Har-
court more attractive than she had ever been. At least
so Thornton Hastings thought, and he lingered at her
side, and felt glad that she gave no outward token of agi
tation when he said to her :
" There was a wedding at St. Mark s in Hanover just
CHRISTMAS DAT. 411
before I left. Can you guess who the happy couple
were?"
f( Yes, Arthur and Anna. She wrote me they were to
be married on Christmas eve. I am BO glad it has come
around at last."
Then she questioned him of the bridal, of Arthur,
and even of Anna s dress, her manner evincing that the
old wound had healed, or was healing very fast, and that
soon only a scar would remain to tell where it had
been.
And so the days went on beneath the sunny Italian
skies, until one glorious night in Rome, when they sat to
gether amid the ruins of the Colosseum, and Thornton
spoke his mind, alluding to the time when each had loved
another, expressing himself as glad that in his case the
matter had ended as it did, and then asking Lucy if she
could conscientiously be his wife.
" What! You marry a frivolous plaything like me? "
Lucy asked, her woman s pride flashing up once more,
but this time playfully, as Thornton knew by the joyous
light in her eye.
She told him what she meant, and how she had hated
him for it, and then they laughed together, but Thornton s
kiss smothered the laugh on Lucy s lips, for he guessed
what her answer was, and that this, his second wooing,
was more successful than his first had been.
412 CHRISTMAS DAT.
" MARRIED, in Rome, on Thursday, April 10th, THORN
TON HASTINGS, ESQ., of New York City, to Miss LUCY
HARCOURT, also of New York, and niece of Colonel
James Hetherton."
Anna was out in the rectory garden bending over a
bed of hyacinths when Arthur brought her the paper
and pointed to the notice.
"Oh, I am so glad, so glad, so GLAD! " she exclaimed,
emphasizing each successive glad a little more, and set
ting down her foot as if to give it force. " I have never
dared be quite as happy with you as I might," she con
tinued, leaning lovingly against her husband, "for there
was always a thought of Lucy, and what a fearful price
she paid for our happiness. But now it is all as it should
be, and, Arthur, am I very vain in thinking that she is
better suited to Thornton Hastings than I ever was, and
that I do better as your wife than Lucy would have
done?"
A kiss was Arthur's only answer, but Anna was satis
fied, and there rested upon her face ,a look of perfect con
tent as all that warm spring afternoon she walked in
her pleasant garden, thinking of the newly married pair
in Rome, and glancing occasionally at the open window
of the library where Arthur was, busy with his sermon,
his pen moving all the faster for the knowing that Anna
was just within his call, that by turning his head he
could see her dear face, and that by and by, when his
CHRISTMAS DAT. 413
work was done, she would come in to Hrr), and with her
loving words and winsome ways make Vn m forget how
tired he was, and thank Heaven again for the great gift
bestowed when it gave him Anna Euthven.