CHAPTER XXV.

THE ANGEL OF THE PINES.

The unexpected arrival of their master's sister and her cortége at "The Pines," as Mr. Delafield's plantation was called, produced quite a sensation among the blacks, who hastened to receive their guests with many demonstrations of joy, rather more affected than real, for Mrs. Lansing was not very popular with them. Halbert and Jessie, on the contrary, were general favorites among the servants, who thought them little less than angels, particularly Jessie, who, with her sweet young face, laughing eyes, and wavy hair, flitted like a sunbeam from cabin to cabin, asking after this old Aunty, or that old Uncle, and screaming with delight when in one hut she found three babies, all of an age, and belonging to the same mother, who boasted of having given to her master "fifteen as likely girls and boys as there were in Georgy."

As yet the triplets had no names, but the arrival of the families suggested a new idea to Hannah, who, seating herself by Jessie, proposed that they be called, "Richard Delafield, Ada Montrose, and Jessie Lansing."

With the first and last the little girl was well pleased, but she objected to the middle name, and taking one of the infants upon her lap, she told the story of her beloved teacher, who was dying at Cedar Grove, and asked that the child she held might be called for her. So, baptized by Jessie's tears, which fell like rain upon its dark and wrinkled face, the babe was christened "Rosa Lee."

The house which Mrs. Lansing termed her country residence (for she always spoke of her brother's possessions as her own), was a large, double log building, containing nothing very elegant in the way of furniture, but still presenting an air of neatness and comfort; for Aunt Dinah, who had charge of it, prided herself upon keeping it neat and clean, as her master was likely to come upon her at any time without warning, and she liked to impress him with her rare qualifications as housekeeper. With Mrs. Lansing, however, she was less pleased, but still as the sister of "Mars'r Richard," she was entitled to consideration, and now in high turban, and all the dignity of her position, the old lady bustled about from room to room, jingling her keys, kicking the dogs, cuffing the woolly pate of any luckless wight who chanced to be in her way, and occasionally stooping down to kiss little Jessie, who, being of rather a domestic turn, followed her from place to place, herself assisting in spreading the supper-table, which, with its snowy cloth, corn cake, iced milk, hot coffee, and smoking steaks, soon presented a most inviting aspect.

Relieved of their fears and thinking themselves beyond the reach of danger, Mrs. Lansing and Ada gave themselves up to the enjoyment of the hour, talking and laughing gaily, without a thought of the sick girl they had left behindhand who that night was to have been a bride. Once, indeed, when after sunset they were assembled upon the rude piazza, Ada spoke of her, wondering if she were dead, and how long it would be ere Dr. Clayton would marry another! Such is the world, to which Ada formed no exception, for how often do we hear the future companion of a broken-hearted man selected, even before the wife of his bosom is removed forever from his sight!

For a long time Mrs. Lansing sat there with Ada and her children, talking on indifferent subjects and occasionally congratulating herself that they were beyond reach of the fever, unless, indeed, Jessie had contracted it by her foolish carelessness! On her lap rested the little golden head of the child, who was humming snatches of "The Happy Land," a favorite song which her uncle had taught her, and which she had often sung with her teacher, asking numerous questions concerning the better world, where

"Saints in glory stand,
Bright, bright as day,"

and wondering if, when she died, Jesus would take her there to sing,

"Worthy is our Saviour King."

Very naturally, now, her thoughts reverted to her governess, and as she listened to the whispering wind sighing through the trees, she fancied it was the voice of Rose bidding her, "come to the Happy Land." Sweet little Jessie, it was the voices of angel children, which you heard thus calling through the pines; for from their shining ranks one beauteous form was missing, and they would fain allure it back to its native sky.

Come I now to the saddest part of my story. Beneath the evergreens of the sunny South is a little mound, over which the shining stars keep watch, and the cypress spreads its long green boughs, while the children of the plantation, dark-browed though they are, tread softly near that grave, which they daily strew with flowers, speaking in low tones of "the Angel of the Pines," as they term the fair young girl, who passed so suddenly from their midst. It was now nearly five weeks since Mrs. Lansing had fled from the pestilence which walked at noonday, and though it had in a measure abated in the village, there were still frequent cases, and she would not have deemed it safe to return, even if typhoid fever, which she feared nearly as much, had not been in her own house. So there was no alternative but to stay, uncomfortable though she was, for the weather was intensely hot, and she missed many of the luxuries of her home. Still it was healthy there, and this in a measure reconciled her to remain. Occasionally, it is true, she heard rumors of the cholera, on some distant plantation, but it seldom visited the pine regions—it would not come there; she was sure of that; and secure in this belief, she rested in comparative quiet, while each day the heat became more and more intense. The sun came up red, fiery, and heated like a furnace; the clouds gave forth no rain; the brooks were dried up; the leaves withered upon the trees, while the air was full of humming insects, which, at night fed upon their helpless, sleeping victims.

At the close of one of these scorching, sultry days, Mrs. Lansing and Ada sat upon the piazza, panting for a breath of pure, cool air. At the side of each stood a negro girl, industriously fanning their mistresses, who scolded them as if they were to blame, because the air thus set in motion was hot and burning as the winds which blow over the great desert of Sahara. As they sat there thus, an old man came up from the negro quarters, saying "his woman done got sick wid the cramps," and he wished "his mistis jest come down see her."

But Mrs. Lansing felt herself too languid for exertion of any kind, and telling Uncle Abel that she herself was fully as sick as his wife, who was undoubtedly feigning, she sent him back with a sinking heart to the rude cabin, where his old wife lay, groaning aloud whenever the cramps, as she termed them, seized her. Scarcely, however, had he entered the low doorway, when a fairy form came flitting down the narrow pathway, her white dress gleaming through the dusky twilight, and her golden hair streaming out behind. It was little Jessie, who, from her crib, had heard her mother's refusal to accompany Uncle Abel, and, stealing away unobserved, she had come herself to see Aunt Chloe, with whom she was quite a favorite.

Unaccustomed as Jessie was to sickness, she saw at a glance that this was no ordinary case, and kneeling down beside the negress, who lay upon the floor, she took her head upon her lap, and gently pushing back, beneath the gay turban, the matted, grizzly hair, she asked where the pain was.

"Bress de sweet chile," answered Chloe, "you can't tache me with the pint of a cambric needle whar 'tain't, and seems ef ebery jint in me was onsoderin' when de cramp is on."

As if to verify the truth of this remark, she suddenly bent up nearly double, and rolling upon her face, groaned aloud. At this moment a negro, who had gained some notoriety among his companions as a physician, came in, and after looking a moment at the prostrate form of Chloe, who was now vomiting freely, he whispered a word which cleared the cabin in a moment, for the mention of cholera had a power to curdle the blood of the terrified blacks, who fled to their own dwellings, where they cried aloud, and praying, some of them, "that de Lord would have mercy on 'em, and take somebody else to kingdom come, ef He must have a nigger anyway."

Utterly fearless, Jessie stayed by, and when John, or as he was more familiarly known, "Doctor," proposed going for her mother, she answered, "No, no; Uncle Abel has been for her once, but she won't come; and if she knows it is cholera, she'll take me away."

This convinced the "Doctor," who proceeded to put in practise the medical skill which he had picked up at intervals, and which was considerable for one of his capacity. By this time, a few of the women, more daring than the rest and curious to know the fate of their companion, ventured near the door, where they stood gazing wonderingly upon the poor old creature, who was fast floating out upon the broad river of death. It was a most violent attack, and its malignity was increased by a quantity of unripe fruit which she had eaten that morning.

"Will somebody make a pra'r?" she said, feebly, as she felt her life fast ebbing away. "Abel, you pray for poor Chloe," and her glassy eyes turned beseechingly towards her husband, who was noted at camp-meetings for praying the loudest and longest of any one.

But his strength had left him now, and kissing the shriveled face of his dying wife, he said, "'Scuse me, Chloe; de sperrit is willin', but de flesh part is mighty weak and shaky like. Miss Jessie, you pray!" he continued, as the child came to his side.

"Yes, honey, pray," gasped Chloe; and kneeling down, the little girl began the Lord's Prayer, occasionally interspersing it with a petition that "God would take the departing soul to heaven."

"Yes, dat's it," whispered Chloe; "dat's better dan all dem fine words 'bout kingdom come and daily bread; dey'll do for white folks, but God bress old Chloe, de thing for niggers to die on."

"Sing, honey, sing," she said, at last; and, mingled with the lamentations of the blacks, there arose on the evening air the soft notes of the Happy Land, which Jessie sang, bending low towards Chloe, who, when the song was ended, clasped her in her arms, and calling her a "shining angel," went, we trust, to the better land, where bondage is unknown, and the slave is equal to his master.

Loud and shrill rose the wail of the negroes, increasing in violence when it was known that into another cabin the pestilence had entered, prostrating a boy, who, in his agony, called for Jessie and Mas'r Richard, thinking they could save him. Late as it was, Mrs. Lansing, Ada, and Lina, were still upon the piazza, which was far more comfortable than their sleeping-room, where they supposed both Halbert and Jessie were safely in bed. They were just thinking of retiring, when suddenly the midnight stillness was broken by a cry so shrill that Mrs. Lansing started to her feet, asking what it was.

From her couch by the open door, Aunt Dinah arose, and going out a few rods, listened to the sound, which seemed to come from the negro quarters, whither, at her mistress's command, she bent her steps. But a short time elapsed ere she returned with the startling news that, "the cholera was thar—that Chloe was dead, and another one had got it and was vomucking all over the night-dress of Miss Jessie, who was holdin' his head."

Wholly overcome with fright, Mrs. Lansing fainted, and was borne to her room, where, for a time, she remained unconscious, forgetful of Jessie, who stayed at the quarters long after midnight, ministering to the wants of the sick, of which, before morning, there were five, while others showed symptoms of the rapidly spreading disease. As soon as Mrs. Lansing returned to consciousness, she sent for Jessie, who came reluctantly, receiving her mother's reproof in silence, and falling away to sleep as calmly as if she had not just been looking upon death, whose shadow was over and around her.

Early the next morning, a man was sent in haste to Cedar Grove, which he never reached, for the destroyer met him on the road, and in one of the cabins of a neighboring plantation, he died, forgetting, in the intensity of his sufferings, the errand on which he had been sent; and as those who attended him knew nothing of Mrs. Lansing's being at the Pines, it was not until the second day after the appearance of the cholera that she learned the fate of her servant. In a state bordering almost upon distraction, she waited for her brother, shuddering with fear whenever a new case was reported to her, and refusing to visit the sufferers, although among them were some who had played with her in childhood; and one, an old gray-haired man, who had saved her from a watery grave, when on the Savannah River she had fallen overboard. But there was no place for gratitude in her selfish heart, and the miserable creatures were left to die alone, uncheered by the presence of a pale face, save little Jessie, who won her mother's reluctant consent to be with them, and who, all the day long, went from cabin to cabin, soothing the sick and dying by her presence, and emboldening others by her own intrepidity.

Towards sunset, Mrs. Lansing herself was seized with the malady, and with a wild shriek, she called on Ada to help her; but that young lady was herself too much intimidated to heed the call, and in an adjoining room she sat with camphor at her nose and brandy at her side, until a fierce, darting pain warned her that she, too, was a victim. No longer afraid of Mrs. Lansing, she made no resistance when borne to the same apartment, where for hours they lay, bemoaning the fate which had brought them there, and trembling as they thought of the probable result.

On Mrs. Lansing's mind there was a heavy load, and once when the cold perspiration stood thickly upon her face, she ordered Jessie and Dinah from the room, while she confessed to Ada the sin of which she had been guilty in deceiving both her brother and Rose.

"It was a wicked falsehood," said she, "and if you survive me, you must tell them so, will you?"

Ada nodded in token that she would, and then, thinking her own conscience might be made easier by a similar confession, she told how she had thought to injure Rose in Mr. Delafield's estimation, and also of the blister, which had drawn on Hagar's back instead of her own! This done, the two ladies felt greatly relieved, and as the cholera in their case had been induced mostly by fear, it began ere long to yield to the efficient treatment of Dinah, who to her housekeeping qualities added that of being a skilful nurse. Towards morning they were pronounced decidedly better, and as Jessie was asleep and Dinah nodding in her chair, Mrs. Lansing lifted her head from her pillow, saying to Ada, "If you please, you needn't tell what I told you last night, when I thought I was going to die!"

Ada promised to be silent, and after winning a similar promise from Mrs. Lansing, they both fell asleep, nor woke again until the sun was high up in the heavens. So much for a sick-bed repentance!

That day was hotter and more sultry than any which had preceded it; and about the middle of the afternoon little Jessie came to Dinah's side and laying her head upon her lap complained of being both cold and tired. Blankets were wrapped around her, but they brought to her no warmth, for her blood was chilled by approaching death, and when at dusk the negroes asked why she came not among them, they were told that she was dying! With streaming eyes they fell upon their knees, and from those humble cabins there went up many a fervent prayer for God to spare the child. But it could not be; she was wanted in heaven; and when old Uncle Abel, who had also been ill, crept on his hands and knees to her bedside, calling upon her name, she did not know him, for unconsciousness was upon her, and in infinite mercy she was spared the pain usually attendant upon the disease.

Almost bereft of reason and powerless to act, Mrs. Lansing sat by her child, whose life was fast ebbing away. In a short time all the negroes, who were able, had come to the house, their dark faces stained with tears and expressive of the utmost concern, as they looked upon the little girl who lay so white and still, with her fair hair floating over the pillow and her waxen hands folded upon her bosom.

"Sing to me, Uncle Dick," she said at last, "sing of the Happy Land not far away;" but Uncle Dick was not there, and they who watched her were too much overcome with grief to heed her request.

Slowly the hours wore on, and the spirit was almost home, when again she murmured, "Sing of the Happy Land;" and as if in answer to her prayer, the breeze, which all the day long had been hushed and still, now sighed mournfully through the trees, while a mockingbird in the distance struck up his evening lay; and amid the gushing melody of that wondrous bird of song and the soft breathing notes of the whispering pines, little Jessie passed to the "Happy Land," which to those who watched the going out of her short life, seemed, indeed, "not far away."

With a bitter cry the bereaved mother fell upon her face and wept aloud, saying, in her heart, "My God, my God, why have I thus been dealt with!"

In the distance was heard the sound of horses' feet, and ere long her brother was with her, weeping as only strong men weep, over the lifeless form which returned him no answering caress. She had been his idol, and for a moment he, too, questioned the justice of God in thus afflicting him.

"Jessie is gone, Rosa is going, and I shall be left alone," he thought. "What have I done to deserve a chastisement like this?"

Soon, however, he grew calmer, and saying, "It is well;" he tenderly kissed the lips and brow of the beautiful child, who seemed to smile on him even in death; then going out among his people, he comforted them as best he could, dropping more than one tear to the memory of those who they told him were dead, and who numbered eight in all. At a short distance from the house was a tall cypress where Jessie had often sported, and where now was a play-house, built by her hands but a few days before. There, by the light of the silvery moon, they made her a grave, and when the sun was up, its rays fell upon the pile of earth which hid from view the sunny face and soft blue eyes of Jessie, "the Angel of the Pines."

CHAPTER XXVI.

RETURN.

For nearly a week after Jessie's death, Mr. Delafield remained at the Pines, doing whatever he could for the comfort of his servants, and as at the end of that time the disease had wholly disappeared, he returned to Cedar Grove, accompanied by his sister and Ada, who had learned by sad experience that the dangers from which we flee, are oftentimes less than those to which we go. They found Rose better, but still quite low, and as the fever had not entirely left her, neither Mrs. Lansing nor Ada ventured near her room, but shut themselves in their own apartment, where the former received the sympathy of her friends, which in this case was truly sincere, for Jessie was universally beloved and the tidings of her death carried sorrow to many hearts.

Over Dr. Clayton a change had come. The hopeful, happy expression of his face was gone, and in its place was a look of utter hopelessness which at first roused Richard's fears lest Rose should be worse, and in much alarm he asked if it were so.

"No, no," answered the doctor, while a shadow of pain passed over his handsome features; "she will live."

Then hurrying to the window he looked out to hide his tears from him whom he knew to be his rival, and who, now that he was unobserved, bent over the sleeping Rose, kissing her wasted cheek and mourning for her as he thought how she would weep when she learned the fate of her favorite. Oh, could he have known the whole, how passionately would he have clasped her to his bosom and held her there as his own, his darling Rose! But it was not yet to be, and he must bide his time.

She had seemed greatly relieved at his absence, and on the second day after his departure, she called Dr. Clayton to her side, fancying him to be her brother Charlie. Taking his hands in hers, she told him the whole story of her trials; how she had tried to bring back the old affection of her childhood, but could not because of the love she had for Richard Delafield.

"Oh Charlie," she exclaimed, "he would forgive me, I know, if he knew how much I suffered during those terrible days, when I thought of giving my hand without my heart. The very idea set my brain on fire and my head has ached, oh, so hard since then, but it's over now, for I conquered at last, and on the night before the wedding, I resolved to tell him all, how I could not and would not marry him. But a dark cloud, which seemed like the rushing of mighty waters, came over me, and I don't know where I am, nor what has happened, only he has been here, hanging like a shadow over my pillow, where sat another shadow tenfold blacker, which he said was death; but grim and hideous as it was, I preferred it to a life with him, when my whole soul was given to another. He, too, was here occasionally, and in his presence the shadow grew less and less, while his voice called me back from the deep darkness in which I was groping. Once, when I was almost home, so near that I heard the song which little Jamie sings—Jamie, who died so long ago—he laid his cool hand upon my forehead, which was wet with the waters of the rolling river, and I heard him say to some one, 'Look up; she is better, she will live.' The next moment he was gone, but I struggled with the waves and floated back to the shore, where, though I could not see him, his hand was stretched out to save me, and for a time he stood between me and Dr. Clayton, who, when he thought nobody heard him, whispered in my ear, 'my bride—my own.' But from my inmost soul I answered, 'Never, never,' while I looked again towards the river which is still in sight, though slowly receding from view."

She paused a moment and then continued: "When I am dead, Charlie, you must tell him how it was, and ask him to forgive and think with pity of poor little Rose, who would have loved him if she could. If he will not listen—if he still persists in marrying me, tell him I would rather die ten thousand deaths than wed a man I do not love, and then his pride will come to his aid. But not a word of this to Mr. Delafield, Charlie, never let him know how I loved him. My affection is not returned, and he would despise me—would never visit my grave or think with pity of one who died so far away from home."

Then followed a message for the loved ones of Meadow Brook, but this Dr. Clayton did not hear. Perfectly paralyzed, he had listened to her story until his reason seemed in danger of leaving him, and long ere she had finished he knew he must give her up—but not to death; and as Richard Delafield had done, so he, in this his hour of bitter trial, felt how much rather he would see her in her coffin than the wife of another. Then in his ear the tempter whispered, "Why need these things be? she is not yet out of danger. A little relaxation of care on your part and Richard Delafield will never call her his."

Only for a moment, however, did Dr. Clayton listen, and then laying his head upon the pillow beside that of Rose, who, wearied with her story, had fallen asleep, he wept as he had never wept before, not even when he saw creeping over her the shadow of death. Turn which way he would, there was naught before him save the darkness of despair; and as wave after wave broke over him, his mind went backward to the time when she might have been his—when he could have gathered her to his bosom—and in piteous accents he cried aloud, "My punishment is greater than I can bear."

But as the fiercest storm soonest expends its fury, so he ere long grew calm and capable of sober, serious thought. Rosa Lee was very dear to him, and to have possessed her love, he would have given almost everything; but as that could not be, ought he to stand in the way of her happiness? He knew she was deceived, for he remembered many things he had seen in Mr. Delafield, which, though, he had not thought of it then, convinced him now that her affection was reciprocated; and should he not tell her so, and at the same time disclose to Richard the true state of affairs? Rosa's quiet, unobtrusive, and rather reserved manner had misled Richard, no doubt, or he would long ere this have declared his love.

"Yes, God helping me, I will do right," he said aloud, clasping his hands over his feverish brow. "I will watch by her until his return, and then committing her to his care I will leave her forever."

There was a movement at his side—Rose was dreaming, and she uttered the name of Richard, while, with a shiver, the doctor stopped his ears and shut out the hated sound. In a moment she awoke and asked for water. It was brought, but he no longer supported her in his arms—no longer smoothed back the tangled curls from her brow, or kissed her white lips. "She is not mine, and it were wrong to caress her now," he thought, and his tears fell upon her face as he laid her gently back upon the pillow. Wonderingly she gazed upon him, and lifting her hand, wiped his tears away, asking why he wept.

"Heaven help me from going mad," he exclaimed aloud, as he walked to the window, where for a long time he stood, trying to school himself for the part he was to act.

He succeeded at last, and never did a tender brother watch more carefully over a darling sister than did he over her during the few days which elapsed ere Mr. Delafield's return. He was alone with her when he came, and with comparative calmness he greeted his rival, who, as we have before stated, was surprised at the change in his looks.

That night, in the solitude of his chamber, the doctor penned two letters; one for Rose and the other for Richard. In substance, the contents of each were much the same, for he told them all he had heard from Rose, and how, though it broke his heart to do so, he had given her up. "Deal very, very gently with her," he wrote to Mr. Delafield, "for never was there a purer, gentler being, or one more worthy of your love than she. Then take her, and when your cup is overflowing with happiness, think sometimes of one who, henceforth, will be a lonely, wretched man."

The letters being written, he put them away until such time as he should need them. Once he thought to talk with Richard face to face, but this he felt he could not do; so one morning about a week after the return of the family to Cedar Grove, and when Rose was out of danger, he pressed a burning kiss upon her forehead, and placing the letters on the little dressing-bureau where they would attract the immediate attention of Mr. Delafield, who, he knew would soon be there, he went in quest of Mrs. Lansing, whom he bade good-by as composedly as if no inward fire were consuming him. In much surprise, she asked why he left them so abruptly, and he replied, "something which has recently come to my knowledge makes it necessary for me to go."

"You will of course return ere long for Miss Lee," continued the lady, who had no suspicion of the truth.

"If I do not come I shall send her brother as soon as she is able to be moved," said he. "She does not know that I am going, for she would not understand me if I told her, so I leave it with you to tell her when you think she will comprehend it."

Then leaving a few directions as to how she must be treated, he hurried away, never looking back, and turning into a side street when in the distance he saw Mr. Delafield coming towards him. Half an hour afterward and the puffing engine, which now each day thundered into town, was bearing him away from a place whither he had come for a bride, and from which he bore only a crushed and aching heart. Scarcely had he left Rose's chamber when a colored woman entered it to "set it to rights" as was her daily custom. She was near-sighted, and going up to the dressing-bureau, carelessly brushed off the letter directed to Richard! Falling behind the bureau, it lay concealed from view, while the negress proceeded with her duties, unconscious of the mischief she had done!

In great surprise Richard heard of Dr. Clayton's sudden departure. "There must be something wrong," he thought, though what he did not know. Going up to Rosa's chamber, he found her still asleep. The room was in order—the servant gone, and on the bureau lay the letter which soon caught his attention. Glancing at the superscription he saw it was for Rose, and thinking to keep it safely until she could understand its contents, he placed it in his pocket; then taking a book, he sat by her bedside until she awoke. She was apparently better, but an unnatural brightness of her eyes told that her mind was still unsettled. So he said nothing to her concerning the doctor's desertion, but himself ministered to her wants.

In the course of a few days Mrs. Lansing was induced to visit her. This she did more willingly, for Rose had loved her little Jessie; she would weep bitterly when she knew she was dead; and the proud nature of the haughty woman gave way to the softer feelings, which often prompts a mother to take a deeper interest in whatever was once dear to a lost, a precious child. So casting aside her nervous fear, she at last went frequently to the sick-room, her own white, delicate hands sometimes arranging the tumbled pillow or holding the cooling draught to the lips of her formerly despised governess—despised, not for anything which she had done, but because it was hers to labor for the bread she ate.

CHAPTER XXVII.

LIGHT.

It was early morning. The windows of my room were open, admitting the fresh, cool air, which had been purified by one of those terrific thunder storms, so common in a southern clime. For many weeks I had lain there in a state of unconsciousness, save at intervals when I had a dreamy realization of what was transpiring around me. The physician who was called in Dr. Clayton's stead had more than once hinted of continued insanity, citing similar cases which had come under his observation; but in spite of his opinion, I, that bright August morning, awoke from a refreshing sleep, with perfectly restored faculties. At first I thought I was alone, for there was a deep stillness in the room, and from the hall below I distinctly heard the ticking of the clock, reminding me of the time, years ago, when once before I had hovered between life and death. Now, as then, I experienced the delicious feeling of returning health, but I missed the familiar faces of my friends, and as I thought how far I was from home, and all who loved me, I said aloud, "I am alone, alone."

"Not alone, Rosa, for I am with you," answered a deep voice near, and the next moment the dark form of Richard Delafield bent over me.

Eagerly scanning my face, he said, "Do you know me?"

"Yes," I answered. "Mr. Delafield." Then as a dim remembrance of the past came over me, I lifted my head and looked around the room for one who I knew had not long since been there.

Divining my thought, he said very gently, as if the announcement would of course give me pain, "He is not here, Rosa. He was obliged to go home, but I dare say he will soon return—meantime I will take care of you. Don't feel so badly," he continued, as tears of genuine joy at Dr. Clayton's absence gathered in my eyes.

I could not tell him the truth, and when I next spoke it was to ask him concerning my illness, how long it had been, etc.

After telling me all that he thought proper, he took the letter from his pocket, and said, "Dr. Clayton left this for you. Have you strength to read it now?"

"Yes, yes," I replied eagerly, at the same time stretching out my hand to take it.

There was a blur upon my eyes as I read, and I pitied Dr. Clayton, who had thus laid bare to me his wretchedness, but mingled with this was a feeling of relief to know that I was free. He told me what he had written to Mr. Delafield, and when I came to that portion of the letter, I involuntarily uttered an exclamation of delight, while I glanced timidly towards him. But he made no sign. The letter which would have explained all was safely lodged behind the bureau, and with a gloomy brow he watched me while I read, interpreting my emotions into the satisfaction he naturally supposed I would feel in hearing from my lover. With me the revulsion was too great, for I fancied I saw in the expression of his face contempt for one who had presumed to love him, and bursting into tears, I cried and laughed alternately, while he tried to soothe me; but I would not be comforted by him.—he hated me, I knew, and very pettishly I told him at last "to let me alone and go away—I was better without him than with him," I said, "and he would oblige me by leaving the room."

The next moment I repented my harshness, which I knew had caused him pain, for there was a look of sorrow upon his face as he complied with my request. But I was too proud to call him back, and for the next half-hour I cried and fretted alone, first at him for making Dr. Clayton think he loved me when he didn't, secondly, at Dr. Clayton for meddling with what didn't concern him, and lastly, at myself, for being so foolish as to care whether anybody loved me or not! At the end of that time Richard came back. The cloud had disappeared, and very good-humoredly he asked "if I had got over my pet, and if I wanted anything."

I did not, but wishing to make amends for my former ill-humor, I asked him to shut the windows, which he did, opening them again in less than five minutes, and fanning me furiously, I was "so hot and fidgety." For several hours he humored all my whims and caprices, and then, as he saw I was tiring myself out, he began to exercise his authority over me, telling me once, I remember, "to lie still and behave, or I would make myself worse!"

Intimidated by his voice and manner, I sank down among my pillows, nor stirred again until I awoke from a sweet sleep into which I had fallen. This time he was gone, but Mrs. Lansing was with me, and the tones of her voice seemed unusually kind as she addressed me. Richard again came in, bearing a beautiful bouquet, which he presented to me "as a peace offering," he said, "for having scolded me so in the morning."

Before night I was so much better that Ada, Lina, and Halbert came in to see me, each expressing their pleasure at my convalescence. But one there was who came not to greet me, and at whose absence I greatly marvelled. She had ever been the first to meet me in the morning, and the last to leave me at night. Why, then, did she tarry now, when I wished so much to see her? Alas, I did not know that never again would her home be gladdened by the sunshine of her presence, for it was Jessie whom I missed—Jessie for whom I longed—straining my ear to catch the sound of her ringing laugh or bounding footsteps.

At last, as the day wore on and she did not come, I asked for her and why she stayed so long away.

Wringing her hands, Mrs. Lansing exclaimed, "Tell her, Richard, I cannot. It will kill me. Oh, Jessie, Jessie!"

But I had no need for further knowledge. I saw what I had not before observed, viz., the mourning garments of those around me, and in tears of anguish, I cried, "My darling is dead!"

"Yes, Jessie is dead," answered Richard. "We shall never see her again, for she is safe in the Happy Land, of which you so often told her."

I could not weep. My sorrow was too great for tears, and covering my face I thought for a long, long time. "Why was it," I asked myself, "that always when death had hovered near me, I had been spared, and another taken," for, as in the case of Jessie, so it had been with brother Jamie—they had died, while I had lived, and with a fervent thanksgiving to Heaven, which had dealt thus mercifully with me, I prayed that it might not be in vain.

Gradually, as I could bear it, Mr. Delafield told me the sad story—how she had hung fearlessly over my pillow when all else had deserted me—how she had come for him—and how naught but her mother's peremptory commands had taken her from my side. As he talked, there came back to me a vague recollection of a fairy form, a seraph I thought it to have been, which, when the dark river was running fast at my feet, had hovered near, whispering to me words of love, and bidding some one bury me beneath the tall magnolia. Then he told me how she had stood like a ministering spirit by the rude conch of the poor Africans, who, with their dying breath, had blessed her, calling her "The Angel of the Pines." From her head he himself had shorn her beautiful shining curls, one of which he gave to me, and which I prize as my most precious treasure; for often as I look upon it, I see again the little gleeful girl, my "Georgia rose," who, for a brief space, dwelt within her fair southern home, and was then transplanted to her native soil, where now she blooms, the fairest, sweetest flower of all which deck the fields of heaven.

The shock of her death very naturally retarded my recovery, and for many weeks more was I confined to my room. About the middle of October, Charlie, whose coming I had long expected, arrived, bringing to me the sad news that death had again entered our household, that by my father's and Jamie's grave was another mound, and at home another vacant chair, that of my aged grandmother, whose illness, he said, had prevented him from coming to me sooner, adding further that they had purposely kept her sickness from me, fearing the effect it might have. Of Dr. Clayton he could tell me but little. He had not visited Meadow Brook at all, but immediately after his return to Boston, he had written to them, saying I was out of danger, and Charlie must go for me, as soon as the intense heat of summer was over. This was all they knew, though with a woman's ready tact, both my mother and my sisters conjectured that something was wrong, and Charlie's first question after telling me what he did, was to inquire into the existing state of affairs between me and the doctor, and if it were my illness alone which had deferred the marriage.

"Don't ask me now," I replied, "not until we are far from here, and then I will tell you all."

This silenced Charlie, and once when Mr. Delafield questioned him concerning Dr. Clayton, and why he, too, did not come for me, he replied evasively, but in a manner calculated still further to mislead Mr. Delafield, who had no suspicion of the truth, though he fancied there was something wrong. In the meantime he was to me the same kind friend, ministering to all my wants, and with a lavish generosity procuring for me every delicacy, however costly it might be.

One day Charlie, with his usual abruptness, said to me, "Rose, why didn't you fall in love with Mr. Delafield? I should much rather have him than a widower."

The hot blood rushed to my cheeks as I replied quickly, "He is engaged to Miss Montrose. They were to have been married this fall, Mrs. Lansing said, but the marriage is, I presume, deferred on account of their recent affliction. At least I hear nothing said of it."

"If I am any judge of human nature," returned Charlie, "Mr. Delafield cares far more for you than for Miss Montrose, even if they are engaged. But then you are poor, while she is rich, and that I suppose makes the difference."

I knew Mr. Delafield too well to suspect him of mercenary motives in marrying Ada, and so I said, "He loved her, of course, and it was natural that he should, for though she had some faults, he probably saw in her enough of good to overbalance the bad."

And still I could not help thinking that, as Charlie had said, his attentions to me were far more loverlike than they were towards her. But then I fancied that his kindness was prompted by the pity which he felt for me, a young girl so far from home. Thus the days wore on, leaving me deceived—and him deceived, while the letter still lay behind the bureau!

At last the morning dawned on which I was to say good-by to the scenes I loved so well. I was to leave the "sunny South," with its dark evergreens, its flowering vines, its balmy air. I was to leave him, who, ere the next autumn leaves were falling, would take to his beautiful home a bride. Then I thought of little Jessie's grave, which I had not seen, and on which my tears would never fall, and taking from its hiding-place the tress of shining hair, I wept over that my last adieu. It was later than usual when Mr. Delafield appeared, and as he came in I saw that he was very pale.

"Are you sick?" I asked, as he wiped the perspiration from his face.

"No, no," he hurriedly answered; at the same time crossing over to a side table, he poured out and drank two large goblets of ice water.

Then resuming his former seat near me, he took my hand, and looking me earnestly in my face, said, "Rose, shall I ever see you here again?"

Before I could answer, Ada, chimed in, "Of course we shall. Do coax the doctor to bring you here sometime, and let us see how you bear the honors of being madam!"

Instantly the earnest look passed away from Mr. Delafield's face, and was succeeded by a scowl, which remained until the carriage which was to take me to the dépôt was announced. Then the whole expression of his countenance changed, and for a brief instant my heart thrilled with joy, for I could not mistake the deep meaning of his looks as he bent over me and whispered his farewell.

"God bless you, Rose," he said. "My Rose I once hoped to call you. But it cannot be. Farewell!"

There was one burning kiss upon my lips, and the next moment he was gone.

"Are you going to the dépôt?" asked his sister, as he was leaving the room.

"No, no, no," he replied, and then as Charlie again bade me come, I rose bewildered to my feet, hardly realizing when Mrs. Lansing, Ada and Lina bade me adieu. Halbert went with me in the carriage, and together with Charlie looked wonderingly at me, as I unconsciously repeated in a whisper, "My Rose I once hoped to call you. It is Ada who stands in the way," I said to myself, and covering my face with my veil, I wept as I thought of all I had lost when Richard Delafield offered his heart to another. He did love me. I was sure of that, but what did it avail me. He was too honorable to break his engagement with Ada, so henceforth I must walk alone, bearing the burden of an aching heart.

——————

"Oh, I have loved you so much," said Halbert, winding his arms about my neck—"loved you as I shall never love another teacher," and the boy's tears flowed fast as he bade me good-by.

One parting glance at Cedar Grove, one last lingering look at Sunny Bank, one thought of Jessie's grave, and then the hissing engine shot out into the woods, leaving them all behind. Leaning back on Charlie's arm and drawing my veil over my face, I thought how impossible it was that I should ever visit that spot again.

——————

In the meantime a far different scene was being enacted in the apartment I had just vacated. Scarcely had the whistle of the engine died away in the distance, when a troup of blacks, armed with boiling suds and scrubbing-brushes, entered my chamber for the purpose of cleaning it. They had carried from it nearly every article of furniture, and nothing remained save the matting and the bureau, the latter of which they were about to remove when they were surprised at the unexpected appearance of Mr. Delafield, who could not resist the strong desire which he felt to stand once more in the room where Rose had spent so many weary weeks. For a moment the blacks suspended their employment, and then Linda, who seemed to be leading, took hold of the bureau, giving one end of it a shove towards the center of the room. The movement dislodged the long-lost letter, which, covered with dirt and cobwebs, fell upon the floor, at her feet. She was the same woman who, weeks before, had carelessly knocked off the letter, which she now picked up and handed to Mr. Delafield, saying, as she wiped off the dirt, "It must have laid thar a heap of a while, and now I think on't, 'pears like ever so long ago, when I was breshin' the bureau, I hearn somethin' done drap, but I couldn't find nothin', and it must have been this."

Glancing at the superscription, and recognizing the handwriting of Dr. Clayton, Mr. Delafield broke the seal, and read! From black to white—from white to red—from red to speckled—and from speckled back again to its natural color, grew his face as he proceeded, while his eyes grew so dazzlingly bright with the intensity of his feelings that the negroes, who watched him, whispered among themselves that he "must be gwine stark mad."

His active, quick-seeing mind took in the meaning of each sentence, and even before he had finished the letter he understood everything just as it was—why Rose had appeared so strangely when she read Dr. Clayton's letter to herself, and realized perfectly what her feelings must have been as day after day went by and he still "made no sign."

"But she is mine now, thank Heaven! and nothing shall take her from me," he exclaimed aloud, unmindful of the presence of the negroes, who, confirmed in their impression of his insanity, looked curiously after him as he went down the stairs, down the walk, and out into the street, proceeding with rapid strides towards the dépôt.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE CHASE.

The railroad which passed through W—— was only a branch of the main route leading to Charleston, and consequently there were but two passenger trains each way per day; and as Mr. Delafield's great object now was to reach Charleston before the boat in which Rose was to sail should leave the landing, it seemed impossible for him to wait until night, for not until then was the next train due. Suddenly he remembered that the express train left Augusta about four o'clock P.M. It was now ten, and he could easily reach it in time for the cars, provided there had been no change in the time table. To ascertain this, therefore, he hastened to the dépôt, where to his dismay he learned that the train left Augusta at two.

But with him to will was to do. Flying rather than walking back to his house, he called out Bill, his coachman, startling him with the inquiry as to whether it would be possible, with his best horses, a span of beautiful dappled grays, which were valued at a thousand dollars, to drive to Augusta in less than four hours.

Besides being naturally lazy and unwilling for exertion of any kind, Bill was also remarkably tender of said grays, who were his pride, and whom he had named Fred and Ferd. On hearing his master's inquiry, therefore, he looked perfectly aghast, and diving both hands into his matted wool, by way of illustration undoubtedly, replied, "Mighty tough scratching I can tell you, mars'r. Them ponies hain't been driv, only what I've ex'cized 'em for health, for better'n a month, and to run 'em as I'd hev to run 'em, would kill 'em stone dead. No, mars'r, can't think on't for a minit," and as if this were conclusive, and his word the law, Bill stuffed his hands into his bagging trousers, and was walking quietly away, when Mr. Delafield stopped him, saying, "I shall try it at all events. So get out the carriage immediately, and mind you are not over five minutes doing it. Ask some one to help you, if necessary—ho, Jack," and he called to a ragged mulatto boy who was doing nothing, and bade him assist Bill in harnessing the horses.

Rolling his white eyes in utter astonishment at what seemed to him the folly of his master, Bill began to expostulate, "Lor, mars'r, you kill"——

"Silence, and do as I bid you," said Mr. Delafield, in a tone which Bill thought best to obey, and sauntering off to the stables, he brought out the ponies, who pranced and pawed the ground, while he admired their flowing manes and smooth shining coats.

Then seeing Jack standing near, ready to help, he haughtily ordered him away, saying, "Nobody but myself is fit to tache these critters. They'd know in a minit if a low-lived nigger like you came a near."

Nothing loath, Jack walked off, while Bill proceeded leisurely to harness the beautiful animals, talking to them as if they were intelligent beings, and telling them, "never to fear—they wan't a gwine to be druv to Gusty in two hours, and no sich thing. Bill sot on the box, and 'twas nothin' to mars'r, who was lollin' on the cushions inside."

At this point he was startled by the voice of Mr. Delafield, who, having hastily packed a few articles in his portmanteau, and written a line to his sister, had come out to superintend in person the movements of his servant, whose peculiarities he perfectly understood.

"So ho," said he, "you mean to cheat me do you?" at the same time signifying his intention of having the horses go as fast as he liked.

"The Lord help Fred and Ferd then, for Bill can't," was the mental ejaculation of the negro as he saw the fire in his master's eye and knew he must be obeyed.

Still he managed to be as slow as possible, insisting that "Ferd allus had to drink two buckets and a half, or he wan't wutha dime," adding in a conciliatory tone, that "with two buckets and a half in him he'd run like lightnin'."

Very impatiently Mr. Delafield waited for the disappearance of the requisite amount of water, consulting his watch, counting the minutes, and at last remarking that it took Ferd a wonderful while to drink.

"That's 'case he's sich a 'strordinary beast every way," answered Bill, who for some little time had been holding an empty bucket to the horse's mouth.

He was going to replenish a third time when his master ordered him back, telling him he could wait no longer; with another glance at his watch, he entered the carriage, while Bill, loudly lamenting the half bucket, without which Ferd would surely die, mounted the box, where he spent quite a while in comfortably disposing of his long, lank limbs and in adjusting his palmleaf hat.

"Go on, you rascal," shouted Mr. Delafield, beginning to lose his temper; and gathering up the reins, Bill whistled to the spirited animals, who dashed off at a far greater speed than their driver thought was at all conducive to their well being.

"Hold on dar, Ferd! Stop dat foolin', will you, Fred! Easy dar, both on you, for you come mighty nigh histin' me off de box!"

This last was said quite loud for the benefit of Mr. Delafield, who, perceiving that their speed had slackened, for they were well trained and readily obeyed Bill's voice, called out, "Drive faster, I tell you. Give them the ribbons, and let them run."

"Lor' a'mighty," answered Bill, now coming to a dead halt in order that his master might be better impressed with what he said. "You don't understand hoss flesh. At this rate you kills 'em in less than no time. Ferd never 'ill stan' it with them two buckets of water, 'case you see how shakin' him up dis way dey'll get bilin' hot and nobody can live with boilin' water in 'em."

Provoked as he was, Mr. Delafield could not repress a smile at the subterfuges of Bill to spare his horses, but he bade him drive on, saying, however, that he need not drive them at the top of their speed immediately, as they would be more likely to give out, "but after a mile or two," he continued, "put them through with the whip if necessary."

"Lor, mars'r," answered Bill from the box, without moving an inch, "I never tache them with a whip in de world. Fred would jump clar out of his skin. All dey want to make 'em kill deyselves is a loose rein and a whistle—so."

Suiting the action to the word, he whistled long and loud, whereupon the horses started forward as if a volley of artillery had been fired at their heels, while mingled with the roll of the wheels, Mr. Delafield heard the distressed Bill, saying, "Whoa, dar, Ferdinand, can't you whoa when I tell you. Think of the bilin' water, and keep easy. Come Frederic, you set him a 'xample. That's a good boy, no 'casion for all dis hurry, if we misses one train we catches another. All de same thing. We ain't chasin' a runaway gal, as I knows of."

After a little he succeeded in stopping them, and for the next ten or fifteen minutes they proceeded on rather leisurely, and Bill was beginning to think his master had come to his senses, when he was startled with the stern command, "Let them run now as fast as they will. Don't check them at all until we reach the dépôt."

Accordingly, for a mile or so the horses rushed on at headlong speed, Bill sympathizing with them deeply and mentally promising himself "to tend 'em mighty keerful to pay for this."

At last, when he thought it safe to do so, he held them in, taking the precaution, however to say aloud, "Get along dar, Ferd—none your lazy tricks here when mars'r's in sich a hurry. Can't you get along dar, I say. An' you, Fred, wake up yer bones to de merits of de case."

But if in this way he thought to deceive the resolute man inside he was mistaken. Perceiving that their speed was considerably slackened, and hearing Bill loudly reproach the horses for their laziness, Mr. Delafield softly opened the carriage door, and leaning out, learned the cause of the delay. Bolt upright upon the box, with his brawny feet firmly braced against the dash-board so as to give him more power, sat Bill, clutching the reins with might and main, for the horses' mettle was up and it required his entire strength to keep them from running furiously! All this time, too, the cunning negro kept chiding them for their indolence in moving so slowly!

"Bill," said Mr. Delafield, sternly, "stop the carriage instantly."

"Lord a massy, mars'r," exclaimed the frightened Bill. "You almost skeered me off de box. Ferd won't get along nohow. I tells him and I tells him how you're in de hurry—don't you mind how I keeps telling him to get along, I reckons he wants dat t'other half bucket of water."

"I understand you perfectly," said Mr. Delafield, alighting from the carriage, and to the utter astonishment of Bill, mounting the box and taking the reins in his own hands. "I understand your tricks, and for the rest of the way I shall drive myself!"

Rolling his eyes wildly in their sockets, the crestfallen Bill folded his arms and resigned the horses to their fate, saying mentally, "I shall war mournin' for 'em, I shall, and he may help hisself."

Over rough and stony places—over smooth and sandy roads—over hills, over plains—through the woods, through the swamps, and through the winding valleys, on they sped like lightning, the excited horses covered with foam, their driver stern, silent and determined, while poor Bill, with the perspiration streaming down his shining face, kept up a continued expostulation, "Now, mars'r, for de dear Lord's sake, stop 'em 'fore dey draps down dead. Look at de white specks all over Ferd's back—he'll never stan' it without dat t'other half bucket. You kills 'em sartin, and dar goes a thousand dollars, smack and clean."