In February the deepest snow storm fell that had fallen during the whole winter. The roads were considered quite impassable by carriages, and the family at Luckenough were blocked up in their old house. Yet one day, in the midst of this "tremendous state of affairs," as the commodore called it, a messenger from Benedict arrived at Luckenough, the bearer of a letter to Mrs. Waugh, which he refused to intrust to any other hands but that lady's own. He was, therefore, shown into the presence of the mistress, to whom he presented the note. Mrs. Waugh took it and looked at it with some curiosity—it was superscribed in a slight feminine hand—quite new to Henrietta; and she opened it, and turned immediately to the signature—Marian Mayfield—a strange name to her; she had never seen or heard it before. She lost no more time in perusing the letter, but as she read, her cheek flushed and paled—her agitation became excessive, she was obliged to ring for a glass of water, and as soon as she had swallowed it she crushed and thrust the letter into her bosom, ordered her mule to be saddled instantly, and her riding pelisse and hood to be brought. In two hours and a half Henrietta reached the village, and alighted at the little hotel. Of the landlord, who came forth respectfully to meet her, she demanded to be shown immediately to the presence of the young lady who had recently arrived from abroad. The host bowed, and inviting the lady to follow him, led the way to the little private parlor, the door of which he opened to let the visitor pass in, and then bowing again, he closed it and retired.
And Mrs. Waugh found herself in a small, half-darkened room, where, reclining in an easy chair, sat—Edith? Was it Edith? Could it be Edith? That fair phantom of a girl to whom the black ringlets and black dress alone seemed to give outline and personality? Yes, it was Edith! But, oh! so changed! so wan and transparent, with such blue shadows in the hollows of her eyes and temples and cheeks—with such heavy, heavy eyelids, seemingly dragged down by the weight of their long, sleeping lashes—with such anguish in the gaze of the melting, dark eyes!
"Edith, my love! My dearest Edith!" said Mrs. Waugh, going to her.
She half arose, and sank speechless into the kind arms opened to receive her. Mrs. Waugh held her to her bosom a moment in silence, and then said:
"Edith, my dear, I got a note from your friend, Miss Mayfield, saying
that you had returned, and wished to see me. But how is this, my child?
You have evidently been very ill—you are still. Where is your husband,
Edith? Edith, where is your husband?"
A shiver that shook her whole frame—a choking, gasping sob, was all the answer she could make.
"Where is he, Edith? Ordered away somewhere, upon some distant service? That is hard, but never mind! Hope for the best! You will meet him again, dear? But where is he, then?"
She lifted up her poor head, and uttering—"Dead! dead!" dropped it heavily again upon the kind, supporting bosom.
"You do not mean it! My dear, you do not mean it! You do not know what you are saying! Dead! when? how?" asked Mrs. Waugh, in great trouble.
"Shot! shot!" whispered the poor thing, in a tone so hollow, it seemed reverberating through a vault. And then her stricken head sank heavily down—and Henrietta perceived that strength and consciousness had utterly departed. She placed her in the easy chair, and turned around to look for restoratives, when a door leading into an adjoining bedroom opened, and a young girl entered, and came quietly and quickly forward to the side of the sufferer. She greeted Mrs. Waugh politely, and then gave her undivided attention to Edith, whose care she seemed fully competent to undertake.
This young girl was not over fourteen years of age, yet the most beautiful and blooming creature, Mrs. Waugh thought, that she had ever beheld.
Her presence in the room seemed at once to dispel the gloom and shadow.
She took Edith's hand, and settled her more at ease in the chair—but refused the cologne and the salammoniac that Mrs. Waugh produced, saying, cheerfully:
"She has not fainted, you perceive—she breathes—it is better to leave her to nature for a while—too much attention worries her—she is very weak."
Marian had now settled her comfortably back in the resting chair, and stood by her side, not near enough to incommode her in the least.
"I do not understand all this. She says that her husband is dead, poor child—how came it about? Tell me!" said Mrs. Waugh, in a low voice.
Marian's clear blue eyes filled with tears, but she dropped their white lids and long black lashes over them, and would not let them fall; and her ripe lips quivered, but she firmly compressed them, and remained silent for a moment. Then she said, in a whisper:
"I will tell you by and by," and she glanced at Edith, to intimate that the story must not be rehearsed in her presence, however insensible she might appear to be.
"You are the young lady who wrote to me?"
"Yes, madam."
"You are a friend of my poor girl's?"
"Something more than that, madam—I will tell you by and by," said Marian, and her kind, dear eyes were again turned upon Edith, and observing the latter slightly move, she said, in her pleasant voice:
"Edith, dear, shall I put you to bed—are you able to walk?"
"Yes, yes," murmured the sufferer, turning her head uneasily from side to side.
Marian gave her hand, and assisted the poor girl to rise, and tenderly supported her as she walked to the bedroom.
Mrs. Waugh arose to give her assistance, but Marian shook her head at her, with a kindly look, that seemed to say, "Do not startle her—she is used only to me lately," and bore her out of sight into the bedroom.
Presently she reappeared in the little parlor, opened the blinds, drew back the curtains, and let the sunlight into the dark room. Then she ordered more wood to the fire, and when it was replenished, and the servant had left the room, she invited Mrs. Waugh to draw her chair to the hearth, and then said:
"I am ready now, madam, to tell you anything you wish to know—indeed I had supposed that you were acquainted with everything relating to Edith's marriage, and its fatal results."
"I know absolutely nothing but what I have learned to-day. We never received a single letter, or message, or news of any kind, or in any shape, from Edith or her husband, from the day they left until now."
"Yon did not hear, then, that he was court-martialed, and—sentenced to death!"
"No, no—good heaven, no!"
"He was tried for mutiny or rebellion—I know not which—but it was for raising arms against his superior officers while here in America—the occasion was—but you know the occasion better than I do."
"Yes, yes, it was when he rescued Edith from the violence of Thorg and his men. But oh! heaven, how horrible! that he should have been condemned to death for a noble act! It is incredible—impossible—how could it have happened? He never expected such a fate—none of us did, or we would never have consented to his return. There seemed no prospect of such a thing. How could it have been?"
"There was treachery, and perhaps perjury, too. He had an insidious and unscrupulous enemy, who assumed the guise of repentance, and candor, and friendship, the better to lure him into his toils—it was the infamous Colonel Thorg, who received the command of the regiment, in reward for his great services in America. And Michael's only powerful friend, who could and would have saved him—was dead. General Ross, you are aware, was killed in the battle of Baltimore."
"God have mercy on poor Edith! How long has it been since, this happened, my dear girl?"
"When they reached Toronto, in Canada West, the regiment commanded by Thorg was about to sail for England. On its arrival at York, in England, a court-martial was formed, and Michael was brought to trial. There was a great deal of personal prejudice, distortion of facts, and even perjury—in short, he was condemned and sentenced one day and led out and shot the next!"
There was silence between them then. Henrietta sat in pale and speechless horror.
"But how long is it since my poor Edith has been so awfully widowed?" at length inquired Mrs. Waugh.
"Nearly four months," replied Marian, in a tremulous voice. "For six weeks succeeding his death, she was not able to rise from her bed. I came from school to nurse her. I found her completely prostrated under the blow. I wonder she had not died. What power of living on some delicate frames seem to have. As soon as she was able to sit up, I began to think that it would be better to remove her from the strange country, the theatre of her dreadful sufferings, and to bring her to her own native land, among her own friends and relatives, where she might resume the life and habits of her girlhood, and where, with nothing to remind her of her loss, she might gradually come to look upon the few wretched months of her marriage, passed in England, as a dark dream. Therefore I have brought her back."
"And you, my dear child," she said, "you were Michael Shields' sister?"
"No, madam, no kin to him—and yet more than kin—for he loved me, and I loved him more than any one else in the world, as I now love his poor young widow. This was the way of it, Mrs. Waugh: Michael's father and my mother had both been married before, and we were children of the first marriages; when Michael was fourteen years old, and I was seven, our parents were united, and we grew up together. About two years ago, Michael's father died. My mother survived him only five months, and departed, leaving me in charge of her stepson. We had no friends but each other. Our parents, since their union, had been isolated beings, for this reason—his father was a Jew—my mother a Christian—therefore the friends and relatives on either side were everlastingly offended by their marriage. Therefore we had no one but each other. The little property that was left was sold, and the proceeds enabled Michael to purchase a commission in the regiment about to sail for America, and also to place me at a good boarding school, where I remained until his return, and the catastrophe that followed it.
"Lady, all passed so suddenly, that I knew no word of his return, much less of his trial or execution, until I received a visit from the chaplain who had attended his last moments, and who brought me his farewell letter, and his last informal will, in which the poor fellow consigned me to the care of his wife, soon to be a widow, and enjoined me to leave school and seek her at once, and inclosed a check for the little balance he had in bank. I went immediately, found her insensible through grief, as I said—and, lady, I told you the rest."
Henrietta was weeping softly behind the handkerchief she held at her eyes. At last she repeated:
"You say he left you in his widow's charge?"
"Yes, madam."
"Left his widow in yours, rather, you good and faithful sister."
"It was the same thing, lady; we were to live together, and to support each other."
"But what was your thought, my dear girl, in bringing her here?"
"I told you, lady, that in her own native land, among her own kinsfolk, she might be comforted, and might resume her girlhood's thoughts and habits, and learn to forget the strange, dark passages of her short married life, passed in a foreign country."
"But, my dear girl, did you not know, had you never heard that her uncle disowned her for marrying against his will?"
"Something of that I certainly heard from Edith, lady, when I first proposed to her to come home. But she was very weak, and her thoughts very rambling, poor thing—she could not stick to a point long, and I overruled and guided her—I could not believe but that her friends would take her poor widowed heart to their homes again. But if it should be otherwise, still—"
"Well?—still?"
"Why, I cannot regret having brought her to her native soil—for, if we find no friends in America, we have left none in England—a place besides full of the most harrowing recollections, from which this place is happily free. America also offers a wider field for labor than England does, and if her friends behave badly, why I will work for her, and—for her child if it should live."
"Dear Marian, you must not think by what I said just now, that I am not a friend of Edith. I am, indeed. I love her almost as if she were my own daughter. I incurred my husband's anger by remaining with her after her marriage until she sailed. I will not fail her now, be sure. Personally, I will do my utmost for her. I will also try to influence her uncle in her favor. And now, my dear, it is getting very late, and there is a long ride, and a dreadful road before me. The commodore is already anxious for me, I know, and if I keep him waiting much longer, he will be in no mood to be persuaded by me. So I must go. To-morrow, my dear, a better home shall be found for you and Edith. That I promise upon my own responsibility. And, now, my dear, excellent girl, good-by. I will see you again in the morning."
And Mrs. Waugh took leave.
"No," thundered Commodore Waugh, thrusting his head forward and bringing his stick down heavily upon the floor. "No, I say! I will not be bothered with her or her troubles. Don't talk to me! I care nothing about them! What should her trials be to me? The precious affair has turned out just as I expected it would! Only what I did not expect was that we should have her back upon our hands! I wonder at Edith! I thought she had more pride than to come back to me for comfort after leaving as she did!"
This was all the satisfaction Mrs. Waugh got from Old Nick, when she had related to him the sorrowful story of Edith's widowhood and return, and had appealed to his generosity in her behalf. But he unbent so far as to allow Edith and Marian to be installed at Mrs. L'Oiseau's cottage, and even grudgingly permitted Henrietta to settle a pension upon her.
It was a jocund morning in early summer—some five years after the events related in the last chapter.
Old Field Cottage was a perfect gem of rural beauty. The Old Fields themselves no longer deserved the name—the repose of years had restored them to fertility, and now they were blooming in pristine youth—far as the eye could reach between the cottage and the forest, and the cottage and the sea-beach, the fields were covered with a fine growth of sweet clover, whose verdure was most refreshing to the sight. The young trees planted by Marian, had grown up, forming a pleasant grove around the house. The sweet honeysuckle and fragrant white jasmine, and the rich, aromatic, climbing rose, had run all over the walls and windows of the house, embowering it in verdure, bloom and perfume.
While Marian stood enjoying for a few moments the morning hour, she was startled by the sound of rapid footsteps, and then by the sight of a young woman in wild attire, issuing from the grove at the right of the cottage, and flying like a hunted hare toward the house.
Marian impulsively opened the gate, and the creature fled in, frantically clapped to the gate, and stood leaning with her back against it, and panting with haste and terror.
She was a young and pretty woman—pretty, notwithstanding the wildness of her staring black eyes and the disorder of her long black hair that hung in tangled tresses to her waist. Her head and feet were bare, and her white gown was spotted with green stains of the grass, and torn by briars, as were also her bleeding feet and arms. Marian felt for her the deepest compassion; a mere glance had assured her that the poor, panting, pretty creature was insane. Marian took her hand and gently pressing it, said:
"You look very tired and faint—come in and rest yourself and take breakfast with us."
The stranger drew away her hand and looked at Marian from head to foot. But in the midst of her scrutiny, she suddenly sprang, glanced around, and trembling violently, grasped the gate for support. It was but the tramping of a colt through the clover that had startled her.
"Do not be frightened; there is nothing that can hurt you; you are safe here."
"And won't he come?"
"Who, poor girl?"
"The Destroyer!"
"No, poor one, no destroyer comes near us here; see how quiet and peaceable everything is here!"
The wanderer slowly shook her head with a cunning, bitter smile, that looked stranger on her fair face than the madness itself had looked, and:
"So it was there," she said, "but the Destroyer was at hand, and the thunder of terror and destruction burst upon our quiet—but I forgot—the fair spirit said I was not to think of that—such thoughts would invoke the fiend again," added the poor creature, smoothing her forehead with both hands, and then flinging them wide, as if to dispel and cast away some painful concentration there.
"But now come in and lie down on the sofa, and rest, while I make you a cup of coffee," said Marian.
But the same expression of cunning came again into the poor creature's face, as she said:
"In the house? No, no—no, no! Fanny has learned something. Fanny knows better than to go under roofs—they are traps to catch rabbits! 'Twas in the house the Destroyer found us, and we couldn't get out! No, no! a fair field and no favor and Fanny will outfly the fleetest of them! But not in a house, not in a house!"
"Well, then I will bring an easy chair out here for you to rest in—you can sit under the shade, and have a little stand by your side, to eat your breakfast. Come; come nearer to the house," said Marian, taking poor Fanny's hand, and leading her up the walk.
They were at the threshold.
"Are you Marian?" poor Fanny asked, abruptly.
"Yes, that is my name."
"Oh, I oughtn't to have come here! I oughtn't to have come here!"
"Why? What is the matter? Come, be calm! Nothing can hurt you or us here!"
"Don't love! Marian, don't love! Be a nun, or drown yourself, but never love!" said the woman, seizing the young girl's hands, gazing on her beautiful face, and speaking with intense and painful earnestness.
"Why? Love is life. You had as well tell me not to live as not to love. Poor sister! I have not known you an hour, yet your sorrows so touch me, that my heart goes out toward you, and I want to bring you in to our home, and take care of you," said Marian, gently.
"You do?" asked the wanderer, incredulously.
"Heaven knows I do! I wish to nurse you back to health and calmness."
"Then I would not for the world bring so much evil to you! Yet it is a lovelier place to die in, with loving faces around."
"But it is a better place to live in! I do not let people die where I am, unless the Lord has especially called them. I wish to make you well! Come, drive away all these evil fancies and let me take you into the cottage," said Marian, taking her hand.
Yielding to the influence of the young girl, poor Fanny suffered herself to be led a few steps toward the cottage; then, with a piercing shriek, she suddenly snatched her hand away, crying:
"I should draw the lightning down upon your head! I am doomed! I must not enter!" And she turned and fled out of the gate.
Marian gazed after her in the deepest compassion, the tears filling her kind blue eyes.
"Weep not for me, beautiful and loving Marian, but for yourself—yourself!"
Marian hesitated. It were vain to follow and try to draw the wanderer into the house; yet she could not bear the thought of leaving her. In the meantime the sound of the shriek had brought Edith out. She came, leading her little daughter Miriam, now five years old, by the hand.
Edith was scarcely changed in these five years—a life without excitement or privation or toil—a life of moderation and regularity—of easy household duties, and quiet family affections, had restored and preserved her maiden beauty. And now her pretty hair had its own will, and fell in slight, flossy black ringlets down each side the pearly brow and cheeks; and nothing could have been more in keeping with the style of her beauty than the simple, close-fitting black gown, her habitual dress.
But lovely as the young mother was, you would scarcely have looked at her a second time while she held that child by her hand—so marvelous was the fascination of that little creature's countenance. It was a face to attract, to charm, to delight, to draw you in, and rivet your whole attention, until you became absorbed and lost in the study of its mysterious spell—a witching face, whose nameless charm it were impossible to tell, I might describe the fine dark Jewish features, the glorious eyes, the brilliant complexion, and the fall of long, glossy, black ringlets that veiled the proud little head; but the spell lay not in them, any more than in the perfect symmetry of her form, or the harmonious grace of her motion, or the melodious intonations of her voice.
Edith, still leading the little girl, advanced to Marian's side, where the latter stood at the yard gate.
"I heard a scream, Marian, dear—what was it?"
Marian pointed to the old elm tree outside the cottage fence, under the shade of which stood the poor stroller, pressing her side, and panting for breath.
"Edith, do you see that young woman? She it was."
"Good heaven!" exclaimed Edith, turning a shade paler, and beginning, with trembling fingers, to unfasten the gate.
"Why, do you know her, Edith?"
"Yes! yes! My soul, it is Fanny Laurie! I thought she was in some asylum at the North!" said Edith, passing the gate, and going up to the wanderer. "Fanny! Fanny! Dearest Fanny!" she said, taking her thin hand, and looking in her crazed eyes and lastly, putting both arms around her neck and kissing her.
"Do you kiss me?" asked the poor creature, in amazement.
"Yes, dear Fanny! Don't you know me?"
"Yes, yes, you are—I know you—you are—let's see, now—"
"Edith Lance, you know—your old playmate!"
"Ah! yes, I know—you had another name."
"Edith Shields, since I was married, but I am widowed now, Fanny."
"Yes, I know—Fanny has heard them talk!"
She swept her hands across her brow several times, as if to clear her mental vision, and gazing upon Edith, said:
"Ah! old playmate! Did the palms lie? The ravaged tome, the blood-stained hearth, and the burning roof for me—the fated nuptials, the murdered bridegroom, and the fatherless child for you. Did the palms lie, Edith? You were ever incredulous! Answer, did the palms lie?"
"The prediction was partly fulfilled, as it was very likely to be at the time our neighborhood was overrun by a ruthless foe. It happened so, poor Fanny! You did not know the future, any more than I did—no one on earth knows the mysteries of the future, 'not the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.'"
This seemed to annoy the poor creature—soothsaying, by palmistry, had been her weakness in her brighter days, and now the strange propensity clung to her through the dark night of her sorrows, and received strength from her insanity.
"Come in, dear Fanny," said Edith, "come in and stay with us."
"No, no!" she almost shrieked again. "I should bring a curse upon your house! Oh! I could tell you if you would hear! I could warn you, if you would be warned! But you will not! you will not!" she continued, wringing her hands in great trouble.
"You shall predict my fate and Miriam's," said Marian, smiling, as she opened the gate, and came out leading the child. "And I know," she continued, holding out her palm, "that it will be such a fair fate, as to brighten up your spirits for sympathy with it."
"No! I will not look at your hand!" cried Fanny, turning away. Then, suddenly changing her mood, she snatched Marian's palm, and gazed upon it long and intently; gradually her features became disturbed—dark shadows seemed to sweep, as a funereal train, across her face—her bosom heaved—she dropped the maiden's hand.
"Why, Fanny, you have told me nothing! What do you see in my future?" asked Marian.
The maniac looked up, and breaking, as she sometimes did, into improvisation, chanted, in the most mournful of tones, these words:
"Darkly, deadly, lowers the shadow,
Quickly, thickly, comes the crowd—
From death's bosom creeps the adder,
Trailing slime upon the shroud!"
Marian grew pale, so much, at the moment, was she infected with the words and manner of this sybil; but then, "Nonsense!" she thought, and, with a smile, roused herself to shake off the chill that was creeping upon her.
"Feel! the air! the air!" said Fanny, lifting her hand.
"Yes, it is going to rain," said Edith. "Come in, dear Fanny."
But Fanny did not hear—the fitful, uncertain creature had seized the hand of the child Miriam, and was gazing alternately upon the lines in the palm and upon her fervid, eloquent face.
"What is this? Oh! what is this?" she said, sweeping the black tresses back from her bending brow, and fastening her eyes upon Miriam's palm. "What can it mean? A deep cross from the Mount of Venus crosses the line of life, and forks into the line of death! a great sun in the plain of Mars—a cloud in the vale of Mercury! and where the lines of life and death meet, a sanguine spot and a great star! I cannot read it! In a boy's hand, that would betoken a hero's career, and a glorious death in a victorious field; but in a girl's! What can it mean when found in a girl's? Stop!" And she peered into the hand for a few moments in deep silence, and then her face lighted up, her eyes burned intensely, and once more she broke forth in improvisation:
"Thou shalt be bless'd as maiden fair was never bless'd before,
And the heart of thy belov'd shall be most gentle, kind and pure;
But thy red hand shall be lifted at duty's stern behest,
And give to fell destruction the head thou lov'st the best.
"Feel! the air! the air!" she exclaimed, suddenly dropping the child's hand, and lifting her own toward the sky.
"Yes, I told you it was going to rain, but there will not be much, only a light shower from the cloud just over our heads."
"It is going to weep! Nature mourns for her darling child! Hark! I hear the step of him that cometh! Fly, fair one! fly! Stay not here to listen to the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely!" cried the wild creature, as she dashed off toward the forest.
Marian and Edith looked after her, in the utmost compassion.
"Who is the poor, dear creature, Edith, and what has reduced her to this state?"
"She was an old playmate of my own, Marian. I never mentioned her to you—I never could bear to do so. She was one of the victims of the war. She was the child of Colonel Fairlie and the bride of Henry Laurie, one of the most accomplished and promising young men in the State. In one night their house was attacked, and Fanny saw her father and her husband massacred, and her home burned before her face! She—fell into the hands of the soldiers! She went mad from that night!"
"Most horrible!" ejaculated Marian.
"She was sent to one of the best Northern asylums, and the property she inherited was placed in the hands of a trustee—old Mr. Hughes, who died last week, you know; and now that he is dead and she is out, I don't know what will be done, I don't understand it at all."
"Has she no friends, no relatives? She must not be allowed to wander in this way," said the kind girl, with the tears swimming in her eyes.
"I shall always be her friend, Marian. She has no others that I know of now; and no relative, except her young cousin, Thurston Willcoxen, who has been abroad at a German University these five years past, and who, in event of Fanny's death, would inherit her property. We must get her here, if possible. I will go in and send Jenny after her. She will probably overtake her in the forest, and may be able to persuade her to come back. At least, I shall tell Jenny to keep her in sight, until she is in some place of safety."
"Do, dear Edith!"
"Are you not coming?" said Edith, as she led her little girl toward the house.
"In one moment, dear; I wish only to bind up this morning-glory, that poor Fanny chanced to pull down as she ran through."
Edith disappeared in the cottage.
Marian stood with both her rosy arms raised, in the act of binding up the vine, that with its wealth of splendid azure-hued, vase-shaped flowers, over-canopied her beautiful head like a triumphal arch. She stood there, as I said, like a radiant, blooming goddess of life and health, summer sunshine and blushing flowers.
The light tramp of horse's feet fell upon her ear. She looked up, and with surprise lighting her dark-blue eyes, beheld a gentleman mounted on a fine black Arabian courser, that curveted gracefully and capriciously before the cottage gate.
Smilingly the gentleman soothed and subdued the coquettish mood of his willful steed, and then dismounted and bowing with matchless grace and much deference, addressed Marian.
The maiden was thinking that she had never seen a gentleman with a presence and a manner so graceful, courteous and princely in her life. He was a tall, finely proportioned, handsome man, with a superb head, an aquiline profile, and fair hair and fair complexion. The great charm, however, was in the broad, sunny forehead, in the smile of ineffable sweetness, in the low and singularly mellifluous voice, and the manner, gentle and graceful as any woman's.
"Pardon me, my name is Willcoxen, young lady, and I have the honor of addressing—"
"Miss Mayfield," said Marian.
"Thank you," said the gentleman, with one involuntary gaze of enthusiastic admiration that called all the roses out in full bloom upon the maiden's cheeks; then governing himself, he bent his eyes to the ground, and said, with great deference: "You will pardon the liberty I have taken in calling here, Miss Mayfield, when I tell you that I am in search of an unhappy young relative, who, I am informed, passed here not long since."
"She left us not ten minutes ago, sir, much against our wishes. My sister has just sent a servant to the forest in search of her, to bring her back, if possible. Will you enter, and wait till she returns?"
With a beaming smile and graceful bend, and in the same sweet tones, he thanked her, and declined the invitation. Then he remounted his horse, and bowing deeply, rode off in the direction Fanny had taken.
This was certainly a day of arrivals at Old Fields. Usually weeks would pass without any one passing to or from the cottage, except Marian, whose cheerful, kindly, social disposition, was the sole connecting link between the cottage and the neighborhood around it. But this day seemed to be an exception.
While yet the little party lingered at the breakfast-table, Edith looked up, and saw the tall, thin figure of a woman in a nankeen riding-shirt, and a nankeen corded sun-bonnet, in the act of dismounting from her great, raw-boned white horse,
"If there isn't Miss Nancy Skamp!" exclaimed Edith, in no very hospitable tone—"and I wonder how she can leave the post-office."
"Oh! this is not mail day!" replied Marian, laughing, "notwithstanding which we shall have news enough." And Marian who, for her part, was really glad to see the old lady, arose to meet and welcome her.
Miss Nancy was little changed; the small, tall, thin, narrow-chested, stooping figure—the same long, fair, freckled, sharp set face—the same prim cap, and clean, scant, faded gown, or one of the same sort—made up her personal individuality. Miss Nancy now had charge of the village post-office; and her early and accurate information respecting all neighborhood affairs, was obtained, it was whispered, by an official breach of trust; if so, however, no creature except Miss Nancy, her black boy, and her white cat, knew it. She was a great news carrier, it is true, yet she was not especially addicted to scandal. To her, news was news, whether good or bad, and so she took almost as much pleasure in exciting the wonder of her listeners by recounting the good action or good fortune of her neighbors or the reverse.
And so, after having dropped her riding-skirt, and given that and her bonnet to Marian to carry up-stairs, and seated herself in the chair that Edith offered her at the table, she said, sipping her coffee, and glancing between the white curtains and the green vines of the open window out upon the bay:
"You have the sweetest place, and the finest sea view here, my dear Mrs. Shields; but that is not what I was a-going to say. I was going to tell you that I hadn't hearn from you so long, that I thought I must take an early ride this morning, and spend the day with you. And I thought you'd like to hear about your old partner at the dancing-school, young Mr. Thurston Willcoxen, a-coming back—la, yes! to be sure! we had almost all of us forgotten him, leastwise I had. And then, Miss Marian," she said, as our blooming girl returned to her place at the table, "I just thought I would bring over that muslin for the collars and caps you were so good as to say you'd make for me."
"Yes, I am glad you brought them, Miss Nancy," said Marian, in her cheerful tone, as she helped herself to another roll.
"I hope you are not busy now, my dear."
"Oh, I'm always busy, thank Heaven! but that makes no difference, Miss
Nancy; I shall find time to do your work this week and next."
"I am sure it is very good of you, Miss Marian, to sew for me for nothing; when—"
"Oh, pray, don't speak of it, Miss Nancy."
"But indeed, my dear, I must say I never saw anybody like you! If anybody's too old to sew, and too poor to put it out, it is 'Miss Marian' who will do it for kindness; and if anybody is sick, it is 'Miss Marian' who is sent for to nurse them; and if any poor negro, or ignorant white person, has friends off at a distance they want to hear from, it is 'Miss Marian' who writes all their letters!"
When they arose from breakfast, and the room was tidied up, and Edith, and Marian, and their guest, were seated at their work, with all the cottage windows open to admit the fresh and fragrant air, and the rural landscape on one side, and the sea view on the other, and while little Miriam sat at their feet dressing a nun doll, and old Jenny betook herself to the garden to gather vegetables for the day, Miss Nancy opened her budget, and gave them all the news of the month. But in that which concerned Thurston Willcoxen alone was Edith interested, and of him she learned the following facts: Of the five years which Mr. Willcoxen had been absent in the eastern hemisphere, three had been spent at the German University, where he graduated with the highest honors; eighteen months had been passed in travel through Europe, Asia, and Africa; and the last year had been spent in the best circles in the city of Paris. He had been back to his native place about three weeks. Since the death of Fanny Laurie's old guardian, the judge of the Orphans' Court had appointed him sole trustee of her property, and guardian of her person. As soon as he had received this power, he had gone to the asylum, where the poor creature was confined, and hearing her pronounced incurable, though harmless, he had set her at liberty, brought her home to his own house, and had hired a skillful, attentive nurse to wait upon her.
"And you never saw such kindness and compassion, Miss Marian, except in yourself. I do declare to you, that his manner to that poor unfortunate is as delicate and reverential and devoted as if she were the most accomplished and enviable lady in the land, and more so, Miss Marian, more so!"
"I can well believe it! He looks like that!" said the beautiful girl, her face flushing and her eyes filling with generous sympathy. But Marian was rather averse to sentimentality, so dashing the sparkling drops from her blushing cheeks, she looked up and said: "Miss Nancy, we are going to have chickens for dinner. How do you like them cooked? It don't matter a bit to Edith and me."
"Stewed, then, if you please, Miss Marian! or stop—no—I think baked in a pie!"
On the afternoon of the same day spent by Miss Nancy Skamp at Old Field Cottage, the family at Luckenough were assembled in that broad, central passage, their favorite resort in warm weather.
Five years had made very little alteration here, excepting in the case of Jacquelina, who had grown up to be the most enchanting sprite that ever bewitched the hearts, or turned the heads of men. She was petite, slight, agile, graceful; clustering curls of shining gold encircled a round, white forehead, laughing in light; springs under springs of fun and frolic sparkled up from the bright, blue eyes, whose flashing light flew bird-like everywhere, but rested nowhere. She seemed even less human and irresponsible than when a child—verily a being of the air, a fairy, without human thoughtfulness, or sympathy, or affections! She only seemed so—under all that fay-like levity there was a heart. Poor heart! little food or cultivation had it had in all its life.
For who had been Jacquelina's educators?
First, there was the commodore, with his alternations of blustering wrath and foolish fondness, giving way to his anger, or indulging his love, without the slightest regard to the effect produced upon his young ward—too often abusing her for something really admirable in her nature—and full as frequently praising her for something proportionately reprehensible in her conduct.
Next, there was the dark, and solemn, and fanatical Dr. Grimshaw, her destined bridegroom, who really and truly loved the child to fatuity, and conscientiously did the very best he could for her mental and moral welfare, according to his light. Alas! "when the light that is in one is darkness, how great is that darkness!" Jacquelina rewarded his serious efforts with laughter, and flattered him with the pet names of Hobgoblin, Ghoul, Gnome, Ogre, etc. Yet she did not dislike her solemn suitor—she never had taken the matter so seriously as that! And he on his part bore the eccentricities of the elf with matchless patience, for he loved her, as I said, to fatuity—doted on her with a passion that increased with ripening years, and of late consumed him like a fever.
And then there was her mother, last named because, whatever she should have been, she really was the least important of Jacquelina's teachers. Fear was the key-note of Mrs. L'Oiseau's character—the key-stone in the arch of her religious faith—she feared everything—the opinion of the world, the unfaithfulness of friends, changes in the weather, reverses of fortune, pain, sickness, sorrow, want, labor!
Now the time had not yet come for this proposed marriage to shock the merry maiden. She was "ower young to marry yet."
So thought not the commodore; for a year past, since his niece had attained the age of fourteen, he had been worrying himself and the elders of the family to have the marriage solemnized, "before the little devil shall have time to get some other notion into her erratic head," he said. All were opposed to him, holding over his head the only rod he dreaded, the opinion of the world.
"What would people say if you were to marry your niece of fourteen to a man of thirty-four?" they urged.
"But I tell you, young men are beginning to pay attention to her now, and I can't take her to church that some jackanapes don't come capering around her, and the minx will get some whim in her head like Edith did—I know she will! Just see how Edith disappointed me! ungrateful huzzy! after my bringing her up and educating her, for her to do so! While, if she had married Grim when I wanted her to do it, by this time I'd have had my grandchil—! I mean nieces and nephews climbing about my knees. But by ——! I won't be frustrated this time!"
And so Jacquelina was kept more secluded than ever. Secluded from society, but not from nature. The forest became her haunt. And a chance traveler passing through it, and meeting her fay-like form, might well suppose he was deceived with the vision of a wood-nymph.
The effervescent spirits of the elf had to expend themselves in the same way. As a child she had ever been as remarkable for surprising feats of agility as for fun, frolic, mischief, and diablerie. And every one of these traits augmented with her growth. Feats of agility became a passion with her—her airy spirit seemed only to find its full freedom in rapid motion in daring flights, in difficult achievements, and in hair-breadth escapes. Everything that she read of in that way, which could possibly be imitated, was attempted. She had her bows and arrows, and by original fitness, as well as by constant practice, she became an excellent markswoman. She had her well-trained horse, and her vaulting bars, and made nothing of flying over a high fence or a wide ditch. But her last whim was the most eccentric of all. She had her lance. And, her favorite pastime was to have a small ring suspended from a crossbeam, and while riding at full speed, with her light lance balanced in her hand, to catch this ring and bear it off upon the point of that lance. In feats of agility alone she excelled, not in those of strength—that airy, fragile form was well fitted for swiftness and sureness of action, yet not for muscular force. Her uncle and Grim indulged her in all these frolics—her uncle in great delight; Grim, under the protest that they were unworthy of an immortal being with eternity to prepare for.
In these five past years, Cloudesley had been at sea, and had only returned home once—namely, at the end of the stated three years. He had been received with unbounded joy by his child-friend; had brought her his outgrown suit of uniform; had spent several months at Luckenough, and renewed his old delightful intimacy with its little heiress presumptive, and at length had gone to sea again for another three years' voyage. And it must be confessed that Jacquelina had found the second parting more grievous than the first. And this time Cloudesley had fully shared her sorrow. He had been absent a year, when, upon one night the old mansion, that had withstood the storms of more than two hundred winters, was burned to the ground!
The fire broke out in the kitchen. How, no one knew exactly.
Be the cause as it may, upon the evening of the fire Jacquelina had gone to her room—she had an apartment to herself now—and feeling for the first time in her life some little uneasiness about her uncle's "whim" of wedding her to Grim, she had walked about the floor for some time in much disquietude of mind and body; then she went to a wardrobe, and took out Cloudy's treasured first uniform, and held it up before her. How small it looked now; why, it was scarcely too large for herself! And how much Cloudy had outgrown it! It had fitted him nicely at sixteen, now he was twenty-one, and in two years more he would be home again! Smiling to herself, and tossing her charming head, as at some invisible foe, she said:
"Yes, indeed. I should so like to see them marry me to that ogre Grim!"
She pressed the cloth up to her face, and put it away, and, still smiling to herself, retired to rest, to dream of her dear playmate.
She dreamed of being in his ship on the open sea, the scene idealized to supernatural beauty and sublimity, as all such scenes are in dreams; and then she thought the ship took fire, and she saw, and heard, and felt the great panic and horror that ensued.
She woke in a terrible fright. A part of her dream was true! Her chamber was filled with smoke, and the house was chaotic with noise and confusion, and resounded with cries of "Fire! Fire!" everywhere. What happened next passed with the swiftness of lightning. She jumped out of bed, seized a woolen shawl, and wrapped it around her head, and even in that imminent danger not forgetting her most cherished treasure—Cloudy's suit of uniform—snatched it from the wardrobe and fled out of the room. Her swift and dipping motion that had gained her the name of "Lapwing" now served her well. Shooting her bright head forward and downward, she fled through all the passages and down all the stairs and out by the great hall, that was all in flames, until she reached the lawn, where the panic-stricken and nearly idiotic household were assembled, weeping, moaning and wringing their hands, while they gazed upon the work of destruction before them in impotent despair!
Jacquelina looked all around the group, each figure of which glared redly in the light of the flames. All were present—all but the commodore! Where could the commodore be?
Jacquelina ran through the crowd looking for him in all directions. He was nowhere visible, though the whole area was lighted up, even to the edge of the forest, every tree and branch and twig and leaf of which was distinctly revealed in the strong, red glare.
"Where is uncle? Oh! where is uncle?" she exclaimed, running wildly about, and finally going up to Mrs. Waugh, who stood looking, the statue of consternation.
Jacquelina shook her by the arm.
"Aunty! aunty! Where is uncle? Are you bewitched? Where is uncle?"
"Where? Here, somewhere. I saw him run out before me."
"No, you didn't! You mistook somebody else for him. Oh, my Lord! he is in the burning house! he is in the house!"
"Oh, he is in the house! he is in the house!" echoed Henrietta, now roused from her panic, and wringing her hands in the most acute distress. "Oh! will nobody save him! will nobody save him!"
It was too late! Commodore Waugh was in the burning mansion, in his bedchamber, near the top of the house, fast asleep!
"Good heaven! will no one attempt to save him?" screamed Henrietta, running wildly from one to the other.
They all gazed on each other, and then in consternation upon the burning building, every window of which was belching flame, while the sound of some falling rafter, or the explosion of some combustible substance, was continually heard! To venture into that blazing house, with its sinking roof and falling rafters, seemed certain death.
"Oh! my God! my God! will none even try to save him?" cried Henrietta, wringing her hands in extreme anguish.
Suddenly:
"Pray for me, aunty!" exclaimed Jacquelina, and she darted like a bird toward the house, into the passage, and seemed lost in the smoke and flame!
Wrapping her woolen shawl closely about her, and keeping near the floor, she glided swiftly up the stairs, flight after flight, and through the suffocating passages, until she reached her uncle's door. It was open, and his room was clearer of smoke than any other, from the wind blowing through the open window.
There he lay in a deep sleep! She sprang to the bedside, seized and shook the arm of the sleeper.
"Uncle! uncle! wake, for God's sake, wake! the house is on fire!"
"Hum-m-m-e!" muttered the old man, giving a great heave and plunge, and turning over into a heavier sleep than before.
"Uncle! uncle! You will be burned to death if you don't wake up!" cried
Jacquelina, shaking him violently.
"Humph! Yes, Jacquelina! um—um—um—Grim! um—um—Luckenough!" muttered the dreamer, flinging about his great arms.
"Luckenough is in flames! Uncle! wake! wake!" she cried, shaking him frantically.
"Ah! ha! yes! d—d little rascal is at her tricks again!" he said, laughing in his sleep.
At that moment there was the sound of a falling rafter in the adjoining room. Every instant was worth a life, and there he lay in a sodden, hopeless sleep.
Suddenly Sans Souci ran to the ewer; it was empty. There was no time to be lost! every second was invaluable! He must be instantly roused, and Jacquelina was not fastidious as to the means in doing so!
Leaping upon the bolster behind his great, stupid head, she reached over, and, seizing the mass of his gray, grizzly beard, she pulled up the wrong way with all her might, until, roaring with pain, he started up in a fury, and, seeing her, exclaimed:
"Oh! you abominable little vixen! is that you: Do you dare! Are you frantic, then? Oh, you outrageous little dare-devil! Won't I send you to a mad-house, and have you put in a strait-jacket, till you know how to behave yourself! You infernal little wretch, you!"
A sudden thought struck Sans Souci to move him by his affection for herself.
"Uncle, look around you! The house is burning! if you do not rouse yourself and save your poor little 'wretch,' she must perish in the flames!"
This effectually brought him to his senses; he understood everything! he leaped from his bed, seized a blanket, enveloped her in it, raised her in his arms, and, forgetting gout, lameness, leg and all, bore her down the creaking, heated stairs, flight after flight, and through the burning passages out of the house in safety.
A shout of joy greeted the commodore as he appeared with Jacquelina in the yard.
But heeding nothing but the burden he bore in his arms, the old sailor strode on until he reached a convenient spot, where he threw the blanket off her face to give her air.
She had fainted—the terror and excitement had been too great—the reaction was too powerful—it had overwhelmed her, and she lay insensible across his arms, her fair head hanging back, her white garments streaming in the air, her golden locks floating, her witching eyes closed, and her blue lips apart and rigid on her glistening teeth—so she lay like dead Cordelia in the arms of old Lear.
Henrietta and Mrs. L'Oiseau, followed by all the household, crowded around them with water, the only restorative at hand.
At length she recovered and looked up, a little bewildered, but soon memory and understanding returned and, gazing at her uncle, she suddenly threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.
She was then carried away into one of the best negro quarters and laid upon a bed, and attended by her mother and her maid Maria.
The commodore, with his wife, found shelter in another quarter. And the few remaining members of the household were accommodated in a similar manner elsewhere.
It was near noon before they were all ready to set forth from the scene of disaster, and it was the middle of the afternoon when they found themselves temporarily settled at the little hotel at Benedict in the very apartments formerly occupied by Edith and Marian.
Here Jacquelina suffered a long and severe spell of illness, during which her bright hair was cut off.
And here beautiful Marian came, with her gift of tender nursing, and devoted herself day and night to the service of the young invalid. And all the leisure time she found while sitting by the sick bed she busily employed in making up clothing for the almost denuded family. And never had the dear girl's nimble fingers flown so fast or so willingly.
Every day the commodore, accompanied by Dr. Grimshaw, rode over to Luckenough to superintend the labors of the workmen in pulling down and clearing away the ruins of the old mansion and preparing the site for a new building.
Six weeks passed and brought the first of August, before Jacquelina was able to sit up, and then the physicians recommended change of air and the waters of Bentley Springs for the re-establishment of her health.
During her illness, Jacquelina had become passionately attached to Marian, as all persons did who came under the daily influence of the beautiful girl. Dr. Grimshaw was to accompany the family to Bentley. Jacquelina insisted that Marian should be asked to make one of the party. Accordingly, the commodore and Mrs. Waugh, nothing loth, invited and pressed the kind maiden to go with them. But Marian declined the journey, and Commodore Waugh, with his wife, his niece and his Grim set out in the family carriage for Bentley Springs. Jacquelina rapidly regained health and rushed again to her mad breaks. After a stormy scene with the commodore, the latter vowed she should either marry Dr. Grimshaw or be sent to a nunnery. To the convent of St. Serena she went, but within a week she was home in disgrace.
The clouds were fast gathering over poor San Souci's heavens.
The commodore had quite recovered for the time being, and he began to urge the marriage of his niece with his favorite. Dr. Grimshaw's importunities were also becoming very tiresome. They were no longer a jest. She could no longer divert herself with them. She felt them as a real persecution, and expressed herself accordingly. To Grim she said:
"Once I used to laugh at you. But now I do hate you more than anything in the universe! And I wish—I do wish that you were in heaven! for I do detest the very sight of you—there!"
And to the commodore's furious threats she would answer:
"Uncle, the time has passed by centuries ago for forcing girls into wedlock, thanks be to Christianity and civilization. You can't force me to have Grim, and you had as well give up the wicked purpose," or words to that effect.
One day when she had said something of the sort, the commodore answered, cruelly:
"Very well, miss! I force no one, please to understand! But I afford my protection and support only upon certain conditions, and withdraw them when those conditions are not fulfilled! Neither you nor your mother had any legal claim upon me. I was not in any way bound to feed and clothe and house you for so many years. I did it with the tacit understanding that you were to marry to please me, and all your life you have understood, as well as any of us, that you were to wed Dr. Grimshaw."
"If such an understanding existed, it was without my consent, and was originated in my infancy, and I do not feel and I will not be in the least degree bound by it! For the expense of my support and education, uncle! I am truly sorry that you risked it upon the hazardous chance of my liking or disliking the man of your choice! But as I had no hand in your venture, I do not feel the least responsible for your losses. Yours is the fate of a gambler in human hearts who has staked and lost—that is the worst!"
"And by all the fiends in fire, Minion! you shall find that it is not the worst. I know how to make you knuckle under, and I shall do it!" exclaimed the commodore in a rage, as he rose up and strode off toward the room occupied by Mary L'Oiseau. Without the ceremony of knocking, he burst the door open with one blow of his foot, and entered where the poor, feverish, frightened creature was lying down to take a nap. Throwing himself into a chair by her bedside, he commenced a furious attack upon the trembling invalid. He recounted, with much exaggeration, the scene that had just transpired between himself and Jacquelina—repeated with additions her undutiful words, bitterly reproached Mary for encouraging and fostering that rebellious and refractory temper in her daughter, warned her to bring the headstrong girl to a sense of her position and duty, or to prepare to leave his roof; for he swore he "wouldn't be hectored over and trodden down by her nor her daughter any longer!" And so having overwhelmed the timid, nervous woman with undeserved reproaches and threats, he arose and left the room.
And can any one be surprised that her illness was increased, and her fever arose and her senses wandered all night? When her mother was ill, Jacquelina could not sleep. Now she sat by her bedside sponging her hot hands and keeping ice to her head and giving drink to slake her burning thirst and listening, alas! to her sad and rambling talk about their being turned adrift in the world to starve to death, or to perish in the snow—calling on her daughter to save them both by yielding to her uncle's will! And Jacquelina heard and understood, and wept and sighed—a new experience to the poor girl, who was
"Not used to tears at night
Instead of slumber!"
All through the night she nursed her with unremitting care. And in the morning, when the fever waned, and the patient was wakeful, though exhausted, she left her only to bring the refreshing cup of tea and plate of toast prepared by her own hands.
But when she brought it to the bedside the pale invalid waved it away. She felt as if she could not eat. Fear had clutched her throat and would not relax its hold.
"I want to talk to you, Jacquelina," she said.
"Eat and drink first, Mimmy, and then you and I will have such another good talk!" said Jacquelina, coaxingly.
"I can't! Oh! I can't swallow a mouthful, I am choking now!"
"Oh! that is nothing but the hysterics, Mimmy! 'high strikes,' as Jenny calls them! I feel like I should have them myself sometimes! Come! cheer up, Mimmy! Your fever is off and your head is cool! Come, take this consoling cup of tea and bit of toast, and you will feel so much stronger and cheerfuler."
"Tea! Oh! everything I eat and drink in this unhappy house is bitter—the bitter cup and bitter bread of dependence!"
"Put more sugar into it, then, Mimmy, and sweeten it! Come! Things are not yet desperate! Cheer up!"
"What do you mean, my love? Have you consented to be married to Dr.
Grimshaw?"
"No! St. Mary! Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Jacquelina, shuddering for the first time.
"Now, why 'heaven forbid?' Oh! my child, why are you so perverse? Why won't you take him, since your uncle has set his heart upon the match?"
"Oh, mother!"
"I know you are very young to be married—too young! far too young! Only sixteen, gracious heaven! But then you know we have no alternative but that, or starvation; and it is not as if you were to be married to a youth of your own age—this gentleman is of grave years and character, which makes a great difference."
"I should think it did."
"What makes you shiver and shake so, my dear? Are you cold or nervous? Poor child, you got no sleep last night. Do you drink that cup of tea, my dear. You need it more than I do."
"No, no."
"Why, what is the matter with my fairy?"
"Oh, mother, mother, don't take sides against me! don't! or you will drive me to my ruin. Who will take a child's part, if her mother don't? I love you best of all the world, mother. Do not takes sides against me! take my part! help me to be true! to be true!"
"True to whom, Jacquelina? What are you talking about?"
"True to this heart—to this heart, mother! to all that is honest and good in my nature."
"I don't understand you at all."
"Oh, mother, the thought of marrying anybody is unwelcome to me now; and the idea of being married to Grim is abhorrent; is like that of being sold to a master that I hate, or sent to prison for life; it is full of terror and despair. Oh! oh!—"
"Don't talk so wildly, Jacquelina, you make me ill."
"Do I, Mimmy? Oh, I didn't mean to worry you. Bear up, Mimmy; do try to bear up; don't fear; suppose he does turn me out. I am but a little girl, and food and clothing are cheap enough in the country, and any of our neighbors will take me in just for the fun I'll make them. La! yes, that they will, just as gladly as they will let in the sunshine."
"Oh, child, how little you know of the world. Yes, for a day or two, or a week or two, scarcely longer. And even if you could find a home, who would give shelter to your poor, sick mother for the rest of her life?"
"Mother! uncle would never deny you shelter upon my account!" exclaimed
Jacquelina, growing very pale.
"Indeed he will, my child; he has; he came in here last night and warned me to pack up and leave the house."
"He will not dare—even he, so to outrage humanity and public opinion and everything he ought to respect."
"My child, he will. He has set his heart upon making Nace Grimshaw his successor at Luckenough, that if you disappoint him in this darling purpose, there will be no limit to his rage and his revenge. And he will not only send us from his roof, but he will seek to justify himself and further ruin us by blackening our names. Your wildness and eccentricity will be turned against us and so distorted and misrepresented as to ruin us forever."
"Mother! mother! he is not so wicked as that."
"He is furious in his temper and violent in his impulses—he will do all that under the influence of disappointment and passion, however he may afterwards repent his injustice. You must not disappoint him, Jacquelina."
"I disappoint him? Why, Mimmy, Luckenough does not belong to me. And if he wants Grim to be his successor, why, as I have heard aunty ask him, does he not make him his heir?"
"There are reasons, I suspect, my dear, why he cannot do so. I think he holds the property by such a tenure, that he cannot alienate it from the family. And the only manner in which he can bestow it upon Dr. Grimshaw, will be through his wife, if the doctor should marry some relative."
"That is it, hey? Well! I will not be made a sumpter-mule to carry this rich gift over to Dr. Grimshaw—even if there is no other way of conveyance. Mother! what is the reason the professor is such a favorite with uncle?"
"My dear, I don't know, but I have often had my suspicions."
"Of what, Mimmy?"
"Of a very near, though unacknowledged relationship; don't question me any further upon that particular point, my dear, for I really know nothing whatever about it. Oh, dear." And the invalid groaned and turned over.
"Mother, you are very weak; mother, please to take some tea; let me go get you some hot."
"Tell me, Jacquelina; will you do as the old man wishes you?"
"I will tell you after you take some refreshments," said Jacquelina.
"Well! go bring me some."
The girl went and brought more hot tea and toast, and waited until her mother had drunk the former and partaken of a morsel of the latter. When, in answer to the eager, inquiring look, she said:
"Mother, if I alone were concerned, I would leave this house this moment, though I should never have another roof over my head. But for your sake, mother, I will still fight the battle. I will try to turn uncle from his purpose. I will try to awaken Grim's generosity, if he has any, and get him to withdraw his suit. I will get aunty to use her influence with both of them, and see what can be done. But as for marrying Dr. Grimshaw, mother—I know what I am saying—I would rather die!"
"And see me die, my child?"
"Oh, mother! it will not be so bad as that."
"Jacquelina, it will. Do you know what is the meaning of these afternoon fevers and night sweats and this cough?"
"I know it means that you are very much out of health, Mimmy, but I hope you will be well in the spring."
"Jacquelina, it means death."
"Oh, no! No, no! No, no! Not so! There's Miss Nancy Skamp has had a cough every winter ever since I knew her, and she's not dead nor likely to die, and you will be well in the spring," said the girl, changing color; and faltering in spite of herself.
"I shall never see another spring, my child—"
"Oh, mother! don't! don't say so. You—"
"Hear me out, my dear; I shall never live to see another spring unless I can have a quiet life with peace of mind. These symptoms, my child, mean death, sooner or later. My life may be protracted for many years, if I can live in peace and comfort; but if I must suffer privation, want and anxiety, I cannot survive many months, Jacquelina."
The poor girl was deadly pale; she started up and walked the floor in a distracted manner, crying:
"What shall I do! Oh! what shall I do?"
"It is very plain what you shall do, my child. You must marry Dr. Grimshaw. Come, my dear, be reasonable. If I did not think it best for your happiness and prosperity, I would not urge it."
"Mimmy, don't talk any longer, dear!" Jacquelina interrupted. "There's a bright spot on your cheek now, and your fever will rise again, even this morning. I will see what can be done to bring everybody to reason! I will not believe but that if I remain firm and faithful to my heart's integrity there will be some way of escape made between these two alternatives."
But could Sans Souci do this? Had the frolicsome fairy sufficient integral strength and self-balance to resist the powerful influences gathering around her?